Ye Be Warned
by SuperSonic21
Summary: When Sam, a pirate, and Castiel, a naval officer, go overboard in the midst of a fight, they must form an uneasy alliance in order to get back to the St. Mary's naval port, and save Dean from the hangman's noose. Sastiel pirates!AU.
1. Chapter 1

**_AN: _**_a sastiel pirates!AU. Does what it says on the tin! Originally posted on my tumblr (itshellfiredean). This will be multi-chapter. _

_Hope you enjoy this! All spelling mistakes and/or historical inaccuracies are my own. :)_

* * *

Waves lashed the side of the Impala, crashing loudly into the ship's old wooden sides and drowning out the sound of metal clashing on metal, and gunfire. Both the crew and the pirate vessel itself were suffering a beating unlike any other they had ever experienced.

They certainly hadn't intended to run into the HMS Celestial. Captain Winchester had been adamant, though, that they wouldn't let the rumours of naval ships in these waters discourage them from their path: on their way to a small island to investigate a supposed haunting that they'd been hearing about from every two-bit sailor that had ever propped up a bar, Dean Winchester had insisted that they take the shortest possible route. He didn't scare easy, after all.

His first mate – his brother – had been a little more reluctant to take this route. But, raised on the high seas under first the watchful eyes of his father and then his brother, who had inherited the ship, he trusted the latter to get them to it with the minimum of trouble, as he always did. Dean always pulled through. They'd never been caught, and they were legendary both with the navy, and amongst other pirates – for better, or for worse.

The Impala, and her crew of Winchesters and vagabonds.

However, this time it didn't look like they were going to get away: they were losing the fight, that much was obvious to Sam, as he fought off an enthusiastic naval officer, who was trying to lodge his sword into Sam's ribs even as he assessed the situation. He kicked the officer in the stomach, sending him rolling down the stairs, onto the deck, from where he stood at the ship's helm.

Next to him, his brother was desperately trying to steer the ship away, but to little avail.

"We're getting slaughtered!" Sam informed him in a yell, fighting with the sound of fighting and the elements to be heard. Dean frowned back at him, casting his gaze around, and cursing loudly.

"Fuck it," He said, and drew his sword, abandoning the helm to help fend off the onslaught of officers making their way onto the Impala via makeshift gangways."Weigh anchor!" He yelled, then looked around - every single member of his crew was busy defending both him and themselves. "… Someone," He added under his breath with a wave of his hand that had Sam staring after him incredulously, momentarily forgetting how deep in the shit they were.

Dean ran into the fray, leaving Sam to look at the devastation: in his heart of hearts, he knew it was too late. They'd really screwed the pooch this time.

Bobby was backed into a corner, blood from his head running into his beard; Rufus had fallen on his ass unceremoniously, dropping his weapon, and was cornered, too; Tamara and Isaac were standing back to back, surrounded. Other crew were also quickly being subdued: either knocked out, or surrounded, with a sword at their throats or a gun to their head.

Sam followed his brother, as he yelled at them,  
"Right! Which of you sons of bitches is in charge here?!" He garnered the attention of the vast majority of his own crew, as well as the opposing crew.  
"I believe that would be me," A voice called above the commotion. From across the gangway, a tall, pompous man with a white wig and ostentatious hat appeared. He was slightly overweight, and wearing the sort of smug smile that Sam knew would wind Dean up straight away. He must be the Captain, then. Or a Commodore, he thought, his stomach dropping.

Behind him, another man scuttled, boarding the ship just after the first. He wasn't much to look at: a typical, bureaucratic naval higher-up. He was a little older than Sam, with a little scruff, and a black wig. Rather than address Dean, as the first man was doing, he chose to direct his calculating stare at Sam.

_He must be the First Mate_, Sam gathered, returning the stare with his own hateful glare.

The navy had stolen their father – he'd traded himself for the lives of his sons, after all. He was deemed a bigger threat than them, at the time, so the authorities had thought all their Christmases had come at once. However, in the years that passed, it was obvious that Sam and Dean Winchester were actually much bigger troublemakers than their father: stealing from merchant ships, killing men they perceived to be evil or in some way 'supernatural' (though no one really believed that crap they and their crew spouted).

"Commodore Zachariah – and of course, I know who you two are. The famous Winchester brothers. Isn't that right, Dean?" The pompous man presumed.  
"That's Captain to you, jerkoff," Dean spat, keeping his sword raised aloft.

Zachariah laughed. His first mate shifted without changing his blank facial expression, making Sam frown. He was going to keep an eagle eye on this bastard, that was for sure.

"Hardly … Your crew are subdued, and you are captured. We'll be taking control of your ship. You shall all hang for this, and my career will be made," Zachariah's self-satisfied smile just widened as he spoke; Sam watched as Dean's scowl deepened in ferocity, growing darker and darker. He was about to do something stupid, probably.

"You and your precious … Brother," He continued, looking for the first time at Sam; a quick up-and-down, causing his lip to curl in revulsion. Sam's frown increased, and he cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing. "You'll be dead this time in a month – nothing more than a warning to your fellow pirates, your rotten corpses hanging from cliff sides,"  
"You can try and stop us – a bunch of your pals tried in the past, and, well … Didn't go too well, did it?" Dean smirked. Sam smirked too, when he recalled the last time a naval vessel had tried to attack them: not only had they fought them off, they'd also ransacked the ship for any valuables, chucked most of their crew in the sea, and left the captain – a vicious man named Captain Uriel – tied up in his quarters for days, until the ship drifted close enough to St. Mary's naval port that somebody spotted it.

Zachariah's smile faltered, and twisted into an expression of the deepest loathing: he paced across the boards that made up the ship that had been handed down through generations of Winchesters, until he was as close as he could get to Dean without being impaled on his weapon. Curiously, the First Mate stayed where he was; Sam, too, felt he had to stay put, and watch him: he could do anything. He had to focus, even though Dean was being threatened, and there wasn't much he could do about it right now.

"Perhaps I'll hang your brother first – try and make sure his neck doesn't break, so he's strangled to death, kicking his freakishly long legs, gasping for air …" Zachariah began, circling around Dean, whose face reflected Zachariah's malice, as he tracked the commodore's movements. "… And then, I'll leave his body out for the crows – they're peck out his eyes, eat his skin … I've seen it, it's not pretty," He paused, arriving back in front of Dean, and in view of both crews. "Only then – after you've seen your precious brother killed and mutilated – only _then _will I allow you to die,"

Dean looked down at the deck – and that was when Sam knew he was on the cusp of jumping into action. His hand flexed on the hit of his own sword, and he studied his rival First Mate with interest. The other man arched an eyebrow at him curiously. Sam didn't respond in kind.

"Nice idea … Here's my response," Dean replied, and made a swipe for the commodore's neck. The older man was surprisingly spritely for his stature, and dodged it – and that was all Sam saw, before he himself was leaping into action, attacking the blue-eyed man in front of him with gusto.

He thrust forward, making a stabbing motion with his right foot forward. A hair-trigger reflex on the part of the Celestial's First Mate meant that he had drawn his sword and deflected the attack in a matter of a second or two, and was mounting a counter-attack.

Sam reared back, side-stepping the First Mate's blade, and backing away across the deck. The first mate backed him further and further towards the opposite side of the ship, as their fighting increased in speed and intensity. Sam knew he couldn't afford to be distracted, as the waves continued to crash around them, and he deflected yet another attack, but … He had to see that Dean was okay. He had to look out for his brother.

He caught just a glimpse of Dean: he was still fighting the commodore and – really surprisingly –_losing_. Other members of the Celestial's crew had joined in, though: his brother was fending off three or four men, now.

But that was all he saw, before he saw a blade coming towards him, and had to duck, blindly striking out with his own sword and hitting _something_ solid.

The First Mate let out the first indication that he wasn't a mute: he hissed, as Sam got in a horizontal wound to his upper left arm, ripping his fancy tan naval coat. His eyes narrowed in fury and, rather than be perturbed by the injury, he was spurred on: the ferocity of his attacks increased, as his finesse began to fall away in place of savagery that Sam had barely seen in pirates, let alone officers of his majesty's royal navy …

"Sammy!" Cried a desperate voice from the other side of the deck, strangled over the sound of the waves. Sam knew what had happened before he looked over, his jaw slack with surprise as he saw Dean sprawled on the floor, face-down, his sword skittering away from him as Zachariah's boot pressed his neck down to the floor. Three other officers had either grabbed his limbs, or were simply holding him down. Usually, Dean would had been able to take them – but not in these conditions; not with so many of them, and Sammy fighting someone just stage-left.

"Dean!" Sam screamed, clutching onto the familiar wooden railing at the side of the ship with an intensity brought about by fear for his brother.

It was at that moment that the Celestial's First Mate dealt the fateful blow: he got in close, intent on using his fists to knock Sam out and subdue him for capture. He dealt an incredibly strong blow to Sam's left side which, while he was unbalanced in his state of shock, and due to the savage waves beating the ship, managed to topple him so that, before he knew it, he was plummeting into the black waves – _black as the Impala, and fringed with white froth_. His last-second reflex was to grab whatever was closest for support.

Unfortunately for him, what was closest was not the railing of the ship, nor its rigging. It was his opponent.

The both of them went tumbling over the side of the vessel, yelling as they landed face-first in the icy cold waters, buffeted immediately about by the storm, the freezing temperatures putting them both into shock. The Caribbean waters were never usually this cold, Sam's memory supplied unhelpfully, as if that would rectify the situation. However, it did nothing to ease his struggles, as the insistent waves pulled him under, filling his mouth with salt water.

Sword still in hand, he began treading water, and calling up to his crew – _to Dean _– to come and help him. He even had the strength and the presence of mind to sheath his sword, knowing he may need it later, but needing his hands free now.

But no one responded to him. Frantically, he cast his gaze around: he couldn't see the other First Mate over the waves. Maybe they'd pulled him out already?

Would they just leave him to die? Surely they wouldn't-

Thunder rumbled ahead, as a particularly large wave appeared, swallowing him whole: it got in his eyes, his mouth; it got down his throat, choking him, leaving him flailing and gasping for breaths he just couldn't take at that moment.

The sea was too strong for him: he couldn't possibly do anything to help himself now, without someone there to guide him. His vision wavered significantly, as he managed the most meagre of breaths before he was pulled underwater again. He began trying to swim, though he didn't know where he was heading, or why.

_Dean was going to hang._

_His brother was going to die, and so was he._

Up on deck, the older Winchester brother screamed, demanding that the navy pull his little brother from the murky waters below. One of Zachariah's own crewmen stated that they ought to look for their First Mate.

But the Commodore just smiled, looking Dean in the eye as he said,  
"Leave them. We have criminals to hang,"

And there began their lengthy journey back to land, with one Winchester brother and his crew in shackles, and one Winchester brother –_ and a naval officer _– lost at sea.

* * *

Warm reds and oranges blossomed behind Sam's eyes before he even knew he was conscious – before he even knew he was still alive, and not in Hell, or the bottom of the ocean (though they were one and the same, for all he'd seen).

He marvelled at the fact he was waking up: he thought for certain that he'd made his way to a watery grave, but … What was beneath him was sand. Warm, grainy sand, beneath and in amongst his fingers, as they twitched involuntarily.

At that moment, his calm, frankly _unbelievable _act of waking up was interrupted by a sharp pain in his shoulder: a jabbing pain that went on and on. Sam recognised that feeling … A boot, on his shoulder, pressing on his collarbone and _hurting_.

He opened his eyes, immediately screwing them up so that as little of the abundant sunshine all around him leaked into them. He reached for his sword, only to find the belt that held both it and his pistol gone. He realised that the comforting weight of his emergency satchel was absent, too. He started, opening his eyes properly and staring up at a figure that was made shadowy and dark by the back-lighting the sun was providing.

It was him. The First Mate he'd managed to drag down with him. The one who now had his boot on Sam's shoulder, standing over him with his sword – which he'd somehow managed to hold onto – in his hand, directed at Sam's face.

Sam scowled up at his assailant, moving his hands up beside him.

"Do not move," The officer growled, inching the sword closer to Sam's face. "I was hoping you would not wake up, _pirate_," He added, disgusted.

Sam sneered back at him. "Likewise,"

The other man's visage of anger didn't shift, even slightly. There was no trace of humour, or compassion, or humility there: he was furious at Sam, clearly.  
"You pulled me from your pathetic vessel when you fell. You have doomed us both,"  
"I didn't-" Sam began, but the officer's foot dug deeper into his shoulder, making him grunt.  
"Refrain from speaking," He ordered Sam.

Sam's expression became doubtful, and he shifted his head to the side, casting his gaze past the officer's boot and towards the rest of the land where they'd ended up. A beach, of course – lined by a variety of tropical trees.

Which meant they were … Well, they could be just about anywhere. _Great_.

"Guess we're marooned then," Sam observed softly, talking mainly to himself.  
"I said don't talk!" The officer spat, drawing Sam's attention. The Winchester snorted.  
"We're not gonna talk? At all?" He asked incredulously. "… And you're gonna keep your boot on me this whole time?"  
"If I have to. If it will stop you from going anywhere. I would hate to see the hangman denied a pair of boots," The First Mate replied, his eyes narrowing.

Sam sighed. It looked like he was going to have to make his way out of this one the old fashioned way – he just hoped his body was ready for another scrap.

Suddenly, without preamble or warning, he craned his neck to bite the officer's heel. He withdrew it immediately with a yelp, his sword flailing in his surprise, allowing Sam to scramble out from underneath the foot, grab the officer's leg, and wrench on it until he fell unceremoniously to the ground. Sam tackled him onto his back, pinning his wrists with his hands, and his legs with his own legs. The officer struggled, but Sam was used to brawling and wrestling – he doubted this pretty-boy had spent as much time practising hand-to-hand combat as he had, fighting with Dean for hours under their father's instruction, for situations such as this.

The officer's eyes widened, regarding Sam anew, as he realised how the criminal had him pinned. He restarted his struggles, but Sam held him fast, sighing as he read what he could see of the other man's face.  
"Don't flatter yourself," He said, thinking that the officer wasn't his type, at all. He wasn't someone who would later sell him out, for one. Sam had a poor history with shacking up with people who would sell him for a shiny object, when given the chance. No – this guy would just sell him out, outright.

And second … Well, he didn't look like he'd be into Sam, anyway. That kind of thing was kind of kind of frowned upon in the navy … _That he knew of_. Hadn't always stopped him in the past, though.

Plus, there was the fact he fucking hated the guy's guts – and the feeling was mutual.

"I'm only gonna kill you … What's your name?" He asked, realising he didn't even know they guy's name. He remained silent. Sam sighed.  
"Come on – your commodore didn't seem that shy," Sam reasoned. The officer looked down, and frowned, finally meeting Sam's eyes again, with a jerk of his wrists that failed to do anything yet again. After a few seconds, he replied: "Castiel,"  
"Castiel. How long have I been out?" He demanded.  
"A day,"

_A day_. That meant Dean was already a day's sailing away – even with the naval ship making its way slowly towards the closest naval port, and stopping for supplies, Sam would struggle to catch up before Dean was locked away. He might not even make it for the hanging.

While Sam was distracted, Castiel acted: he wrenched one of his wrists free, socking Sam in the face, making him rear back in pain. Castiel rolled them over, flipping Sam onto his front, and pinning his arm behind him. Castiel smiled contentedly at the futile kicking of the pirate's legs, and the grunt of pain he let slip.

"You should really keep a closer eye on your enemy, _boy_. They always said you were the slower of the two. The daydreamer – some have even called you insane … Amongst other more superstitious titles," He mused, as Sam continued to struggle. But, with Castiel sitting on his back and his arms pinned by his full weight, there was nothing he could do. Except talk (though he was, admittedly, a little breathless).  
"Have you seen any ships go past?" He gasped.  
"What's it to you?" Castiel asked disinterestedly.  
"I'm trying to get rescued, dumbass. Seen ships, or not?" He persisted.

Castiel's grip on his arms tightened at the insult, twisting them far enough that Sam cried out, his eyes watering. Castiel's face didn't even falter at the noise of pain. It was a while before he answered.

"… None from his Majesty's navy," Castiel admitted quietly.  
"Pirate ships, then?" Sam specified. Castiel said nothing. "I'm guessing that's a _yes_, then," Sam surmised. Suddenly, he found himself flipped over onto his back, with Castiel pinning him once more, with both his body and his eyes.  
"I do not owe you _any _answers, Sam Winchester. You have condemned me. Your touch corrupts – you pulled me overboard, away from my fellow officers and my _duty_," He hissed.

When Castiel wrenched on Sam's coat, yanking him towards his face, Sam studied the officer's face: fair, yet ageing. He was in his thirties, but had a haunted look in his otherwise impassive eyes that indicated that he had seen some things that had aged him. His stubble wasn't usual for an officer of his rank; he also had a surprising affinity for hand-to-hand combat – more than Sam had been bargaining on, at first.

Sam had always thought that the wigs naval officers wore made them look stupid, but Castiel's black one – strewn as it was with sand, and tarnished – lent him the air of being unhinged, and desperate. Sam was willing to believe that this was true, as Castiel's furious eyes traced his face with a burning intensity Sam knew well was reserved for only lovers and nemeses. He didn't wish to experience that gaze any longer.

Grabbing the wrists of the hands that held him close, Sam pulled them free, and scrambled away from the officer in one motion. He brought himself to his feet, as the officer slowly drew himself to his full height, also: he didn't rival Sam, who knew that, at 6"5, his height was his principle advantage in hostile situations. Many times, bar fights had been broken up by Sam simply asking if there was a problem: his stature and reputation encouraged would-be attackers to quit while they were ahead.

However, those things wouldn't cut it this time.

He began to circle, as Castiel did, too: luckily, Sam spotted that he was near Castiel's sword, and made a grab for it. Taking it up, he held it up to the officer, and reasoned:  
"Your fellow officers … They didn't even try and rescue you. They easily could have, unlike my crew, who you were going to _kill_," Sam pointed out, his voice low and venomous.  
"Your crew are criminals. Murderers, and thieves," Castiel justified.  
"And yours aren't?" Sam asked. Castiel didn't respond to that – though he himself would never take from a ship they were inspecting or had boarded at sea, and had never murdered anyone in cold blood (though he was seriously considering it right about now), he knew that some of his fellow officers had done so.

There was a long pause, where Castiel didn't say anything in his crew's defence – this spoke volumes to Sam, who, having seen Castiel's crew, could say he didn't consider them to be honourable or loyal men. At least, not to their fellow sailors.

"I don't know why you hate me so much – me and my brother are doing you a favour. The people we kill, that our crew stop, are all bad people," Sam pointed out, changing his tone of voice to a more level one. It was time to put the physical fighting to the side, and get down to business.  
"Some were officers of His Majesty's-" Castiel began.  
"Doesn't mean they were good people," Sam interrupted, his logic irrefutable, even to Castiel.  
"What is the point of this taunting?" Castiel asked curiously, with an edge of annoyance to his voice.  
"Where are my effects?" Sam quizzed him.  
"Why should you care? You have, in your hand, a sword worth ten times the sum of all your worldly belongings,"  
"They're important to me," Sam replied, his voice momentarily softer. Castiel knew that, while pirates where no strangers to lies and deceit, what had come out of the younger Winchester's mouth at that moment was a pure truth. However, this moment of softness was soon gone, before Sam raised Castiel's sword: "I won't ask again,"

"The treeline. I hid them in a tree," Castiel confessed. Sam frowned, making a confused expression before shaking it off.  
"So – will you be killing me now?" Castiel asked, a little flippantly.  
"Well, that depends – do you want me to?" He asked.

Castiel made eye contact with the pirate at that. Sam quirked an eyebrow, his expression still fraught with loathing, but his intentions clear as he finished: "I was intending to make a deal with you, _Castiel_,"  
"Is that so, _boy_?" Castiel replied, a bitter smile on his face.  
"I'll get you off this island … I'll even get you back to your precious naval base, with all your navy buddies – _if _you help me free Dean," He offered earnestly.  
"No. I cannot free a prisoner … I should not even be _speaking_ with you, let alone fraternising with a-"  
"Yeah, yeah – I'm a pirate. I know that. But I'm also loyal, to my brother, and my crew. Wouldn't you do the same to help your family? Your crew?" Sam knew that most of Castiel's crew wouldn't hesitate sell Castiel out for their own personal gain when push came to shove – but that didn't mean the First Mate would do the same to them.

He seemed an honourable man, at least: after all, if he wasn't, Sam would be dead.

Castiel was silent for a very long time, looking Sam up and down, and breathing deeply. Sam held his gaze, and his nerve: this was a man who would sell him out at any moment, given the chance – and, honestly, he would sell Castiel out to his fellow pirates without much convincing, too.

But they needed to get off this island.

"Those pirate ships will never take you on board if you don't have me. I could vouch for you … And you could help me break Dean out when we get to the naval port. That's all I'm asking. It's a fair trade," Sam continued.  
"Hardly," Castiel snorted condescendingly.  
"Hey – listen to me. The captains of those ships you saw going past this past day? They would kill you on sight – they don't take people they don't know, _especially _ones who look like you," Castiel opened his mouth to intervene, but Sam shifted the sword in his hand, raising it slightly, and cutting off the officer's protests. "So, you can either accept my offer, and fucking _stick to it_ … Or you can stay on this island, while I get away, and try and free Dean without your help,"

The ultimatum hung heavy in the air, as the ocean breeze tousled at Sam's hair and Castiel's regal coat alike.

Castiel remained silent, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, obviously not wanting to accept that Sam was right – but he was. No other vessel was coming by any time soon, and he needed to get back to his crew.

"Do we have a deal?" Sam asked levelly at last. Castiel took a tentative step forwards, his eyes still narrowed, as if he were trying to work Sam out.  
"You are not quite as barbaric as they say you are, Sam Winchester," Sam cocked his head to the side, as the officer continued: "… But you are a pirate, and I cannot ever trust you,"  
"Likewise," Sam repeated his statement from earlier.

Castiel held out his hand. Cautiously, Sam lowered Castiel's sword, and moved to clasp Castiel's hand in his own. As he did so, Castiel drew him in closer, so that they were toe-to-toe.  
"But let this be known to you, _boy_ … If you try and betray me, it shall be your last act,"

Sam smirked, nodding with an expression of strong dislike on his face, as he grudgingly accepted the deal he'd crafted, that he was already questioning.  
"As long as you get Dean out, I couldn't care less," Sam whispered to him. For a moment, their hands were clasped together: there was no sound aside from those of the ocean, the swaying trees, and the occasional bird.

Castiel's other hand came to rest on top of Sam's, as he continued:  
"They call you the boy with the demon blood, you know," Castiel informed Sam. "They say you are part-demon, if such a thing exists," Castiel's voice sounded in equal measures ponderous and disgusted. The officer's hands weren't as soft as expected, but were still soft all the same: much more so than Sam's calloused palms, rough from tugging on ropes, manual labour, and the occasional makeshift-surgery. "… I wonder why they say that,"

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear, _Cas_," Sam retorted.  
"Do not call me that, Sam Winchester," Castiel bristled.  
"Then don't call me _boy with the demon blood_," Sam replied with a superficial smile, before pulling his hand free, and making his way towards the tree line. "Now, which tree did you put my stuff in?"


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: **__another chapter! Again, all spelling mistakes or historical anachronisms are my own - just a bit of fun, not meant to be completely accurate :)_

_Hope you're enjoying it so far! _

* * *

With a weary sigh, Castiel cast his gaze about, before making for a specific area of the treeline, a couple of hundred metres away. He held out his hand once more, beckoning to the sword. Sam frowned at him, but Castiel stared him down. The man was no pushover.

"If you would like your possessions back, I would suggest you return my weapon to me with haste,"  
Sam opened and shut his mouth a few times, wondering if he could get the officer to simply tell him where his stuff was without surrendering the weapon. However, looking at Castiel's steely gaze again, he realised this issue was not one he was going to be able to negotiate on. He handed the sword back begrudgingly, and watched closely as the officer returned it to its sheath.

Sam wondered how long Castiel had been awake – long enough that he'd managed to get his wits about him, disarm a pirate, leave said pirate's effects in a tree, and come back to threaten to kill the pirate. Which begged the question . . .

"Why didn't you just kill me?" Sam asked, trailing behind Castiel as he followed the officer to his belongings.  
"It is not my place," Castiel replied through gritted teeth.  
"What, so you've never killed someone before?" Sam asked doubtfully. Castiel narrowed his eyes, casting his gaze over his shoulder. What with the heat of the island, and blinding bright sunlight, and the fact he'd swam all the way to shore in a storm, he was exhausted. And these questions were trying his already-waning patience.  
"Of course I have. And I may again if you do not desist with these inquiries," He replied  
"If you were gonna kill me, you'd have done it by now . . . You'd have done it while I was out cold," Sam reasoned. Castiel turned sharply around, bringing his hand to the hilt of his sword in a warning. Sam put up his hands warily, as Castiel growled:  
"Is that when _you_ would have killed _me_? . . . I'm not a pirate, _boy_. I would not kill a man who does not have full control of his faculties,"  
"Neither would I! . . . It's just that, some of your fellow officers seem a bit . . ." He trailed off, his eyes searching the landscape for the next word, as his hands dropped slowly down. Eventually, he shrugged.

Castiel slowly withdrew his hand from the hilt, and turned to continue on his path.  
"It is no secret that some of them can be overzealous. I believe the fact I am, at this point in time, working with you – an abomination, in the eyes of the law, and in my own eyes – would be frowned upon by them, even to save my life and return to my post,"  
"Yeah, well – we all gotta do what we need to, to survive," Sam replied quietly. He thought of Dean, in the brig of some miserable naval ship, clinging to iron bars and wondering when, _if _Sam would be able to help him. Or maybe he was hoping Sam didn't endanger himself, and didn't come to rescue him – _yeah, that was more like Dean._

But that was tough. Sam was coming to save him, danger be damned. They'd been through worse, at the hands of creatures from the worst nightmares of the naval officers who believed _they_ were what he and Dean feared most. The royal navy wasn't much compared to those things.

"Indeed," Castiel finished the conversation curtly, but not unkindly, Sam found. He wondered, again, at Castiel's backstory, though he knew better than to ask. The man was already at the end of his tether, it seemed. Sam decided to take the course of action he'd taken with Dean when he was in this kind of mood, many times before: silence.

So, they travelled in the loaded silence until they reached the tree Castiel had hidden his belongings in. He stopped abruptly, Sam stopping just a few feet short of him, not wanting to get too close, still.  
"There they are," Castiel pointed at his belt and satchel, hanging from an off-shoot at the top of the tree.  
"Are you gonna help me get them?" Sam asked, looking up into the canopy, and mentally calculating his route upwards. Castiel snorted, drawing his gaze:  
"I don't think I'll be helping arm a pirate, thank you," He declined sardonically. "If you can't get them, you'll just have to make do without them,"

Sam chuckled, his dimples appearing and his nose wrinkling. Castiel frowned, for the first time seeing the pirate amused: he had to admit, he could see how Sam had managed to get away with so many cons and impersonations in his time. Despite his potentially threatening stature, the boy was all soft charm, and was, he had to admit, roguishly handsome.

"You think a _pirate _can't climb?" Sam sniggered. Castiel was brought out of his thoughts, as Sam pushed him to the side with a hand on his chest, shaking his head and still thoroughly amused. He watched as the younger Winchester brother used the footholds he himself had used earlier to hide the possessions, to make his way up to them. In fact, he moved much more gracefully than Castiel would had previously assumed he would: he had, clearly, had much practise. But, being a pirate all his life, this wasn't surprising.

Castiel averted his eyes as Sam continued his ascent, grabbing the satchel and belt. "Got 'em," He said softly to himself, getting into a sitting position on one of the branches of the tree. He was just thankful Castiel hadn't hid his stuff by throwing it up into a palm tree – the lack of branches would have been hard to work with.

He rested for a moment, still worn out from his near-drowning ordeal, and closed his eyes, sighing. He could sleep up here, if needed. Granted, Castiel would be able to climb up as he'd done before when hiding his effects, but not without alerting Sam. And now, Sam had his pistol.

He opened his eyes, looping the belt around himself and fastening it quickly, checking his pistol – he thought to himself that a day in tropical conditions would surely have been enough to dry the powder after his impromptu swim. He put it away once more, and threw the satchel across his body. He doubted a lot of the stuff in there would be much help – a few shillings, two bottles of rum, his father's journal, a small telescope – but he and Dean had always had a plan of what they'd grab if the ship looked to be about to fall to the navy. He'd hoped he'd never have to put the plan into action, but alas . . .

"Winchester!" Castiel called, frustrated that Sam was taking so long. "Are you going to-"

Sam dropped down a second later, startling the pompous jerk. He laughed again at how skittish the officer was around a pirate like himself.  
"I assume you've looked in here already," Sam asked, rummaging in the satchel for the rum. "Glad I packed this now – I'm so damn _thirsty_," He assumed it was from both the heat, and the fact he'd probably swallowed several gallons of salt water on his way to the island.

Castiel eyed him with suspicion, as he retrieved the beverage. As he opened the bottle, the odour of the liquor made his nose wrinkle. Sam paused for a moment, looking first at the bottle, then to his reluctant companion.

". . . Want some?" He offered, knowing he'd have to get Castiel onside at one point for his plan to work. Of course, they were both sure to betray each other when push came to shove, but . . . For now, they didn't have to be at each other's throats one hundred percent of the time.  
"I'll pass," Castiel replied shortly, clearly believing it was poisoned. Sam sighed.  
"Fine," He said, mainly to himself, and took a swig from the bottle. "But you're gonna have to drink something, sometime,"

"There are coconuts in these trees," Castiel pointed out, waving his arm in the direction of the trees that surrounded them. Sam followed with his eyes, and conceded that, yes, that was probably better than getting drunk out of his mind, right now – no matter _how _bad he felt about his current predicament. He packed the rum away, and made for deeper into the trees, looking upwards to find the most attainable coconuts.

"Not a drinker?" He asked Castiel, as he made his way through the long grass that lined the ground between the trees. Castiel trailed behind him, torn between not wanting to stick to him like a lost puppy, and keeping an eye on him lest he do something underhanded.

"I do not like to be inebriated around p-"  
"Quit calling me a pirate," Sam requested, looking back at him with a scowl.  
"Why? It's what you are," Castiel replied. Sam turned around, his eyes rolling, stopping directly in Castiel's path so that they were face-to-face amongst the greenery and sand.  
"Yeah, but you don't see me calling you _cowardly ass-kissing moron_, do you?" He asked.  
"I'm not a coward," Castiel replied hotly. "And I am not unintelligent,"  
"Well every time you call me a pirate, you lump me in with all the rest of them – and I'm _not _like them," Sam insisted.

Castiel took a step closer, so that they were nearly toe-to-toe. Sam's eyes flicked from Castiel's bright blue eyes, to his clenched fists, to his dry lips, caught off guard for a moment at the proximity and the _closeness_ of what the officer was doing. Castiel leant in closer still, and Sam wondered exactly _what _he was about to do.

"Then _prove it_," He whispered, before withdrawing slowly after a few seconds. Sam found himself struck dumb, unable to think of a reply.

Eventually, he gathered his thoughts, and turned around without another word. Castiel was smiling smugly behind him, he knew – but it didn't matter. He _would_ prove it. He'd get Castiel off this island, and he'd show him that not all pirates were evil, or bad.

He'd show him he wasn't the boy with the demon blood.

Or that he didn't act like it, anyway.

* * *

The afternoon provided Castiel with the opportunity to sit around on the beach, mulling over his thoughts in silence. It was an activity Sam would have called sulking, but not to the officer's face.

He'd excused himself from Castiel after they'd gathered a few coconuts, and taken them back to the beach, which they'd agreed was the best place to look out for ships. A landmark event: they hadn't agreed on anything much, so far.

Honestly, Sam had wanted some time alone to think over his strategy: it was definitely shaky, at best, at the time of conception. Working with the very type of person who wanted him dead . . . Yeah, not the smartest move.

Except that person could get him into St. Mary's port, and to Dean . . . So it was a risk he was eager to take. And besides – this Castiel guy wasn't _evil_. Sam had worked with pirates who'd ostensibly been more trustworthy, and ended up in all manner of hideous situations: bait for vampires, cursed with ancient hoodoo, sold out to the navy . . . Well, okay, that last one was definitely going to happen to him at some point with this plan, but he figured if he played his cards right, he wouldn't end up caught.

And Dean would be safe. That was his true main priority, really – of course, he'd like to be spared, and he'd love to get the Impala back, but – well, she was nothing without her Captain. And neither was he, really. Just a First Mate, a little brother, a cursed freak on the run from the law.

So, he'd decided to go with this plan he'd thought of in the heat of the moment. And to be friendlier to the man who was supposed to be his enemy.

The more he thought about it, though, the more he knew Dean would absolutely rip him a new one if he knew what he was planning. Not just the plan – which Sam himself knew was reckless, though he refused to abandon it, and simply succumb to his own fate, and to Dean's – but the alliance with Castiel. Not just because previously some of Sam's alliances had ended in intimate relations that had gone hellishly wrong, but because Castiel was genuinely dangerous. He could almost hear him now – _Sammy, you better sleep with one eye open. _

_Sammy, he'll sell you out_.

_Sammy, I'm not worth getting killed over. _

But he was – at least, to Sam he was.

As he returned, he saw Castiel eyeing him suspiciously from afar. As he got closer, though, the officer turned away, pretending to act as if he hadn't been looking. Sam snorted softly to himself – he was acting like a petulant teenager.

It was plainly obvious that Castiel believed he was better than Sam. He prided himself on being in an upstanding, legitimate profession, rather than simply committing random acts of stealing and violence. It was clear, too, that Castiel thought that those activities were all the Winchesters and their crew did: while it was true that, in order to get by, they did steal and cheat bad people out of money, their main goal was to prevent the spread of evil across the oceans and seas they sailed in. If only the other man could have seen – could have _believed _in the things Sam had done. He could imagine them being friends, perhaps.

He snorted once again. _Yeah, like that was gonna happen_.

He reached the place where Castiel was sitting, and dumped down his precious cargo: a dead bird, and a large bunch of leaf-covered branches. Castiel looked mildly interested at the sight of the branches, but when he saw the bird, he frowned.

"You killed this creature," He surmised, his eyes lingering on Sam's pistol for a moment. The pirate shifted uncomfortably under what he considered to be a very judgemental gaze.  
"Shot it out of the sky, actually," He replied, feeling more than a little impressed with himself at that feat of hunting prowess. Truth be told, he'd been shooting birds from the skies above the Impala's decks his whole life: it was much easier on land than it was on rolling, pitching wood, or rigging.

That didn't stop him from missing the feel of the fickle, untameable sea, rocking his childhood home beneath his feet, and daring him to take aim and fire.

"You must be very pleased with yourself," Castiel replied mildly – but there was an edge of bitterness to his voice as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the creature. He reached out a hand, and stroked the black feathers of the bird, extending its wing and studying it with a melancholy look on his face. It made Sam uncomfortable to watch.

"I thought we could, uh . . . We could cook it. For food – look, I already got the firewood while you were just _sitting here _. . ." He trailed off, watching as Castiel withdrew his hands from the unfortunate bird. Quietly, he sat down beside the other man, arranging the foliage he'd collected into piles of wood and leaves.

They sat in silence for a moment, Sam considering when he should let Castiel know their plans for being seen and rescued. But just as he was about to speak, the officer spoke before him.

"The destruction of any of God's creatures is a horrible thing," Castiel told Sam simply. Sam blinked, and frowned. He thought carefully about what he would say next, as he stared down at the dead bird.

"I . . . I know," Sam said cautiously.  
"I doubt a pirate like you is devout," Castiel said in a condescending tone, a hint of laughter in his voice.  
"Why not?" Sam replied, becoming angry. "What, you think you have a monopoly on religion? On being good?"  
"You shoot birds. You surely shoot humans, too – murder is a sin," Castiel preached, looking only at the floor as they argued, as if he were reading scripture directly from it.  
"Then why do you insist on hunting people like me and my brother down? If we were truly evil, wouldn't God strike us down for you?" Sam shot back. He collected himself with a shake of his head, and continued, "You know why I shot that bird? So we could eat, and survive. So we could get outta here, and save Dean's life. I'm pretty sure his life is worth more than that of a damn bird,"

Castiel didn't reply, but finally looked Sam in the eye. The younger man was clearly annoyed and angry – Castiel was finding the concept of offending a pirate by presuming he had no faith hard to grasp.  
"I believe. I do. Just cause I'm . . ." Sam struggled to find the words, but settled for: "Just cause I live like this, doesn't make me a bad person. And just cause you're on the side of the authorities, doesn't make you a good one,"

Castiel sighed, and sized up his would-be ally. He'd never suspected that he would believe in God, let alone be willing to call Castiel out on his beliefs.

"I . . . Am sorry," He officer replied. Sam blinked, taken aback: he'd not been expecting anything as polite as an apology from the other man. "While I do not believe that you are a good man, I accept your logic," Castiel added shortly.  
"Uh . . . Thanks?" Sam responded warily. He received no reply after a few minutes, so he decided to outline the plan.

"Listen, I've got all this wood for making a fire – we'll keep it lit overnight, and then come daybreak, pile on these green leaves. They smoke like crazy, and in my experience, it's a pretty good signal to ships that someone's been marooned,"  
"A _pretty good_ signal?" Castiel replied incredulously, squinting.  
"What did you want to do, send out a message in a bottle?" Sam asked sarcastically. Castiel narrowed his eyes once more, but other than that, offered no form of rebuttal or threat of violence. Sam hid his grin of victory by turning away, and beginning to construct a fire pit.

"So . . . The ships that come by . . . The ones who may or may not pick us up," Castiel began, a tone of trepidation in his voice. Sam raised his eyebrow, looking over his shoulder. The other man avoided eye contact as he asked, "How will I be able to board?"  
"What, how are we gonna make it look like you're _not _some naval dick?"  
"Please refrain from using such base language . . . But yes," Castiel conceded.

Sam turned back to his companion, looking him up and down doubtfully. Sizing him up.  
"Well," He began, "If we got rid of your coat-"  
"Absolutely not. I will not forfeit this garment," He refused steadfastly, tugging the coat closer to himself unconsciously, despite the heat.  
"Okay, okay!" Sam gave up on that strategy straight away. "We can say you stole it. And – well, I guess take off that neck-tie thing. Get rid of a few of those frill things on your cuffs . . ." Sam replied, his eyes continuing to search Castiel's body analytically, making the naval officer a little uncomfortable.

"Other than that, just – undo a few shirt buttons, scuff your shoes a bit. Untuck your shirt. You know – get a bit dirtier,"  
"Dirtier?" Castiel asked doubtfully, raising one eyebrow.  
"Yeah, Cas . . . Dirtier," Sam repeated slowly.

It was only when the officer turned away, clearly going bright red, that he realised what he'd said.  
"Uh, so – um, moving on," He said hastily, "Your wig's gotta go, too, obviously,"  
"I cannot leave it behind," Castiel shook his head, "I may need it in the future,"  
"Can't you just get a new one?" Sam groaned. Castiel just looked at him. "Okay, fine. I'll keep it in my satchel. Don't blame me if it gets all scrunched up,"

Castiel took that opportunity to finally remove the damn thing. Underneath, Sam wasn't surprised to find very dark brown hair – though he was a little more taken aback by how the First Mate ruffled it, letting it stick out every which way, until he had a sort of _devil-may-care_ look about him. Sam swallowed, and took the wig, placing it right at the bottom of the bag.

"I will make the suggested amendments to my outfit then, I suppose," Castiel stated to no one in particular, and began to unbutton his shirt. Sam turned away and resumed his work on the fire pit, thinking to himself that Dean would _definitely _rip him a new one for the thoughts that had been circulating through his mind just a second ago. Fine, Dean didn't care about the gender of the people he got involved with, but – after being involved with supernatural beings, and people who would later sell them out – an _officer of the royal navy_ would definitely be the final fucking straw; the last taboo.

And there was no way he was doing that. No way.

"Do you have any idea which of your friends-"  
"Fellow pirates – no guarantee we're _friends_, Cas. It's not like we all know each other," Sam corrected dryly.  
"Once more, I would rather you did not call me that," Castiel reminded Sam.  
"If I know one thing about what's gonna go down with this plan, it's that a fancy name right outta the bible like _Castiel _is will stick out like a sore thumb," Sam informed him. Castiel sighed.  
". . . Fine. Cas does sound more common," He acknowledged, removing his coat and setting to work ripping off the more ornate parts of the sleeves of his shirt. He was much too overdressed for the hot environment, anyway.

"Anyway – no, I can't really say who it's gonna be. I just hope whoever it is will be going our way, and will be glad to help us," Sam replied, thinking aloud.  
"And you are not planning to sell me out to your _fellow pirates _as soon as you get the opportunity?" Castiel asked. Sam turned back to him one more time, a weary sigh about to pass his lips – but it was caught short.

Castiel was sitting there half-naked, fiddling with the fabric of his shirt, his brow creased, and a tiny amount of his tongue sticking out in the midst of his extreme concentration. Sure, Sam had seen a whole bunch of half-naked men before, having lived and worked on a ship his whole life, but Castiel . . . Well, at the same time as being objectively attractive in a way Sam could easily quantify (nice face, good body), and obviously unattainable, Castiel was also _cute_.

And that made him groan internally, and want to punch himself in the face. If only he'd actually _gotten any _recently, maybe these thoughts wouldn't be shooting through his mind all the time. But . . . It'd been a long voyage, and they'd been looking to make port when they'd been attacked. So, yeah. It'd been a while, for Sam.

He had to refocus. He could not let this get in the way of his goal – he needed to save his brother, and Castiel was merely a tool he could use in order to achieve that. He needed to cast any other thoughts out of his mind.

"No, Cas. I'm not gonna sell you out," He replied, ending the conversation, and finally getting on with making the fire pit – and lighting the fire – in peace.

At first, he hadn't believed that – he believed he'd choose to sell Castiel out at his first chance – but he needed him to get to St. Mary's. And part of him was terrifyingly okay with having to keep him around so long; being in his presence.

Sure, Castiel was out to kill Sam. But he was also attractive. And less boring than he'd originally anticipated. Unfortunately.


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN: **__hey! Thanks for all the alerts and reviews - you guys are the greatest! This story, as well as graphics based on it, is also being posted on my tumblr simultaneously (itshellfiredean). _

_Warnings in this chapter for characters being drunk and dorky. Enjoy!_

_Also, the cover for this story is taken from an edit by tumblr user samsfire made for this story - thanks for all the inspiration! _

* * *

Castiel watched Sam sleep.

Sam had decided he would allow himself to sleep, now that it was obvious Castiel wouldn't be able to escape this place without him – well, wouldn't be able to escape without him _alive_.

The young pirate slept fitfully, while Castiel stayed up and stared at his surroundings: the beautiful sea, glistening in the light of the moon; the fire beside him, dancing and crackling and warming him; the stars, ethereal and yet somehow almost _touchable _on a night as clear as this – they had always been one of Castiel's favourite things about his career as a sailor. He was always happy to take a night watch, as long as he could count off his favourite constellations.

However, though these things were complex and special in their own ways, none of them even came close to the man sleeping beside him.

He simply could not figure Sam Winchester out. More accurately, he was having trouble reconciling the Sam Winchester he'd heard so much about, with the one he now knew.

Sam had admitted to him earlier that he'd stolen and sinned; he didn't deny his crimes, and yet . . . He seemed almost _pleasant_. However, knowing that the devil often appeared attractive and reasonable so as to appeal to men, and lead them astray, he resolved to remain wary.

They had spoken a little over their dinner of cooked bird. Castiel had to admit, he'd been hungry: coconuts were all well and good, but the sustenance the meat had provided had been much appreciated by his stomach. After two days of eating little, it had been rewarding.

The Winchester boy hadn't even been awake two days. He knew not how Castiel had spotted him passed out and sinking into the briny sea, and had dragged him ashore. He clearly did not remember Castiel helping revive him, and spill the water from his lungs. He did not recall how Castiel – knowing it was the correct thing to do, no matter how evil he was – saved his life.

He'd hardly thought about the initial act of saving the human: it was standard procedure to pull a drowning man from the jaws of death. But the following day, his doubts grew, and he thought more and more about how his situation was _Sam's _fault, and how the boy had done nothing but evil his whole life. No: the real fight had been not to kill him before he woke.

Castiel saw, now, that Sam hadn't _only_ done evil in his life: in the small acts of kindness and helpfulness the younger Winchester had extended to him, he saw glimpses now of a life poorly lived, but full of mercy and – _God help him _– good deeds.

Thinking of pulling a man from the sea – he considered Zachariah, and the fact he had not been rescued by him. There must have been some sort of . . . _Misunderstanding_. He could not have decided to leave him behind on purpose – Castiel was his First Mate.

And his cousin.

But perhaps . . . Well, Sam had made the point earlier that they'd left without him, or even so much as _trying _to find him. Perhaps he was right when he said that being on the side of the authorities did not necessarily equate to being a good person.

Looking down at the young man, his head tucked into the crook of his elbow, and his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, Castiel felt as if he were looking at him for the first time. He kept twitching in his sleep, and his face was twisted into a frown. Castiel wondered if he was having a nightmare about the fate of his brother: he didn't care much for Dean Winchester – in fact, as the Captain of a famously-evasive pirate ship wanted for a multitude of crimes, he actively disliked him – but he envied Sam, in that he had relatives who cared for him.

Unlike Zachariah.

. . . Castiel shook his head, clearing his mind of that idea. _No_, he thought, _this is the boy, getting into my head_. He frowned, marvelling at how easily he'd been convinced that he'd been left behind on purpose. This Winchester boy was smart . . . Perhaps he'd tricked him into thinking such a thing on purpose.

Suddenly, Sam sat up, panting and grabbing for something or other with flailing limbs. Castiel watched him warily, as he gathered his bearings: first looking into the fire and then at Castiel, with eyes blown wide with fear.

Gradually, his breathing eased off, as he calmed down. He brought his knees to his chest, crossing them at the ankles and resting his arms on his knees.

Castiel realised he should not intervene or ask questions if he was to remain distant from Sam, but . . . In the firelight, his face looked even younger, and infinitely more vulnerable. The result of their predicament and his dream alike, surely. Castiel hadn't before thought that he was as scary to Sam, as Sam was to him. They were natural enemies, of course.

He decided to say something anyway.

"Nightmare?" He asked quietly. Sam's head jerked up to look at him, a weary expression gracing his features.  
"What do you care?" Sam asked standoffishly. Castiel blinked, realising that the boy's lashing out at him was a defence to protect himself, rather than to harm him.

He noticed Sam worrying the skin at the hollow of his throat – the area Castiel had been so keen to strangle with a length of rope, not twenty-four hours ago. He wasn't so sure of that goal now, and he watched Sam's long fingers trace the skin hesitantly.

He frowned as he watched Sam's fingers dip lower, to grasp something settled against his chest. He tried not to appear as if he was craning his neck inquisitively for a better view, while discretely observing the younger Winchester. _A necklace_.

"Is that a pirate medallion?" Castiel asked conversationally. Sam looked up at him, trying to read him: he suspected Castiel would be disgusted or disapproving of such a thing, but he merely seemed curious. Interested, even.  
"No . . . No, it's an amulet," Sam corrected.  
"I see," Castiel replied, expecting Sam to go on. After a long pause and an equally long sigh, Sam obliged:  
"It belonged to my brother . . . I gave it to him as a gift, but he-" Sam swallowed, trying not to be overcome with emotion; the light of the fire gave away the shine of tears in his eyes. But he wouldn't let them fall. ". . . A while back, he decided he didn't want it anymore,"  
"But he is your brother," Castiel replied, frowning. "Why would he do such a thing?"

Sam closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.  
"I . . . Trusted the wrong people," He gritted out. Castiel nodded once in understanding, looking down at his feet, and feeling – for some reason – ashamed. Sam continued, ". . . I trusted others over him, for what I thought was his own good, but . . . They betrayed me. And we weren't the same, after that, Dean and I,"

Castiel thought back to an argument with his sister, Anna. Their family had been involved in the royal navy for many, many years; generations of Captains and Commodores. But Anna, after having gone along with their family profession for years, had rebelled: she'd tried to persuade Castiel that to kill pirates was wrong. They deserved prison – or, in some cases, to be left be.

As he stared at Sam, he wondered if she might have been right.

"We patched it up – but not before he threw this thing out," Sam looked down at the amulet, stroking it lightly with his index finger. "I never let him know I kept it . . . And that's why I have to see him again. He can't die til he knows, Cas. He can't d-"

Sam cut himself off at that point, before he began to get overly-emotional. He shut his eyes for a few seconds, and when they reopened, they were dull and miserable, rather than sad and emotional.

Castiel observed the change with a grim fascination: after years of living at sea, he himself could not have masked such feelings in such a short time as that. Sadly, he realised that Sam had grown up in the company of pirates and hardened men, who were not known for being overly sensitive, or in touch with their feelings.

Castiel marvelled that Sam's father – the infamous John Winchester – had allowed Sam's skills of masking his emotions to develop to almost uncanny levels.

"Rest, Sam Winchester. We have a long journey ahead of us," Castiel told him. Sam glanced up at him, and studied him for a moment, as if making some important decision. He then nodded once, both in acquiescence and thankfulness. He settled down once more, pulling his coat around him, and staring into the fire until his eyes drooped once more, and he fell asleep.

Though he knew there was a good chance he would regret it later, Castiel felt himself make an important decision at that moment, as he caught himself thinking:  
_I will make sure your brother wears his amulet again_.

* * *

When Castiel awoke, he cursed himself for falling asleep. He hadn't meant to: after all, Sam could flag down a pirate ship on his own, and arrange his own assault on St. Mary's port, without Castiel. It would be a hundred times more difficult and he would probably fail, but he could still attempt it without the officer, he knew.

So, he'd meant to stay up, until they had been removed from the island, and were on a ship, and then . . . Well, he had not thought that far into his plan. He realised he would have to sleep at one point, but he was reluctant to do so on a ship full of pirates. So he would have been at a loss for when to get some much-needed rest.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep in Sam's presence, but now that he had – and had survived the night – he had been shown that, truly, Sam would not murder him the first chance he got. And he was thankful for that, at least.

He cast his gaze around, and realised he was alone. The fire was still going, with a bed of greenery burning nicely on top of it, but with no sign of the man who had put it there. As he sat up and cast his gaze around, his eyes sought out Sam's coat.

The great brown thing was discarded on the floor, a little way away from the fire pit. His eyes followed a set of large footprints, and he frowned when he saw a discarded shirt . . . And boots . . . What the-?

Then, he raised his eyes, and saw him: Sam was standing in the shallow water, his hair dark with its dampness and sticking out in all sorts of directions. He appeared to be stabbing into the waves with a makeshift spear – a piece of sharpened wood – trying to catch fish, no doubt. There was already a small pile of them by his side, Castiel noticed. But it wasn't the fishing or the pile of clothes that made him do a double take. It was Sam's bare chest.

The boy was covered in tattoos.

His body was littered with them, from the strange star-shaped design above his heart, to the ornate yet unreadable lettering that lined the majority of his ribs. Even from this far, Castiel could see them: he'd always presumed that pirate tattoos were vulgar and the domain of human detritus, unwittingly identifying themselves as the criminals they were . . . But the way they stuck out from Sam's tan flesh was enough to persuade Castiel to reconsider. He had to admit was very aesthetically pleasing . . . Or was that just the body underneath?

Though mesmerised with the way the ink moved as Sam's muscles flexed and extended, glistening with salty seawater, Castiel forced himself to look away. It did not do to have such thoughts about pirates.

As if he had heard him, Sam looked up at that moment, his eyes scanning the beach, until they reached Castiel. And he smiled.

Castiel found himself – oh, so strangely – smiling back, albeit weakly. He was a little distracted at that moment. Pirate or no, the boy kept himself in impeccable shape. And perhaps it was Sam's faith, or his general politeness, or the emotional vulnerability that he'd shown last night, but . . . Castiel decided that tattoos were not strictly for ruffians and pig-headed vagabonds.

Sam made his way from the sea, discarding the spear as he splashed his way onto the wet sand that clung to his feet. The fabric that covered his legs clung to them, showing muscle definition that made Castiel simultaneously jealous, and awed. The pirate shook his hair out, running his hands through it and scrunching his face up as he made his way back to the fire pit.

"Mornin', Cas," He greeted cordially. Castiel just stared at him.

Sam raised his eyebrows, taken aback at the scrutiny he was being put under, and wondering what he'd done wrong this time.  
". . . Castiel?" He asked cautiously.  
"Good morning," The officer replied, snapping out of his stupor. Sam raised a doubtful eyebrow at him, before turning away to grab some of the foliage he'd collected yesterday, adding it to the fire, and causing the smoke to rise into the air – hopefully, a good enough signal to any ships that might come by. He sat by it, drying himself on it, as well as relying on the late-morning sun for the same purpose.

". . . You have collected fish," Castiel stated.  
"Yup," Sam replied shortly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which it was. "Sorry, I know you're against killing animals or whatever-"  
"You are forgiven. At least, this time," Castiel replied, adding on the last part quickly, in a way that Sam found strange. Despite only having known the man a couple of days, he could tell that something wasn't quite right with him.

But he decided not to ask. He remembered his emotional confession regarding his and Dean's relationship – _and the amulet_ – and figured he'd already said too much. It was probably a bad idea to engage in much more personal talk from this point on, he decided. A least – if he could resist.

He rubbed his hand down his face, brushing lightly against his stubble, and deciding to cast the thought of getting closer to Castiel from his mind. No matter how cute he looked sitting there bleary-eyed in the sunlight, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. And no matter how closely he'd seen the officer watching him as he'd been fishing, and walking to the shore in wet pants. Something twisted in his stomach, but he dampened it down, clutching his amulet and thinking steadfastly of Dean, and how miserable he was right now, and how he needed merely to _use _Castiel, not – well, not _use _him, he was just-

"I'm thirsty," He said plainly, trying not to give his thoughts away with his facial expression. "We got any coconuts left?"  
"No. I believe we used the last of them up yesterday. I could go and get some-" Castiel replied.  
"No – I'll just, drink this-" Sam replied, reaching for his rum before Castiel had even finished his offer. Pulling it from the bag, he uncorked it and took a long swig. Castiel looked at him doubtfully. Sam handed him the bottle.

"I do not wish-"  
"I didn't kill you in your sleep, did I?" Sam pointed out.  
"I find it hard to believe that that is the epitome of a trusting relationship," Castiel countered.

Sam simply offered him the bottle again, without comment. Castiel sighed, took the bottle, and drank from it after a cautious sniff that made Sam grin. When Sam grinned, Cas unfortunately did, too.

It tasted vulgar and gross to the officer – although, having eaten plenty of sea biscuits in his day, he had a strong stomach for rancid tastes now. But alcohol . . . That was another matter.  
"What you said about me not being a drinker," Castiel said, handing back the bottle to the pirate, he drank from it again, "You were right. I do not drink spirits often," Of course, out on the open water, weak mead was the drink of choice – but it was hardly comparable to the rum Sam was gulping down.

Castiel watched as the boy drank, the occasional drips of liquor running down from his face onto his neck, and then his chest. Castiel licked his lips, before averting his eyes, before Sam caught him looking as he offered the officer the bottle again.

"Yeah? . . . Me neither – well, I'm a bit of a lightweight, actually," Sam confessed, with a self-deprecating smile. "I'm just so damn _thirsty_,"  
"Indeed," Castiel agreed, drinking once more.  
". . . I have two bottles," Sam pointed out, looking Castiel up and down, sizing him up. He noted that their silences were a lot less loaded or icy now; Castiel did not fear that he was about to be poisoned, or feel that he needed to point out that Sam was a pirate at least once a minute.

"Good," Castiel replied, smiling genuinely back for the first time, as he felt a warmth that was nothing to do with the fire or the midday sun warm his cheeks.

* * *

". . . It turned out to not even _be _a ghost. Or a monster – it was just a bunch of humans!" Sam enthused, gesturing wildly, though still being of sound-enough mind that he didn't spill his drink. "But let me say, while I was in the brig of some slaver ship, in the middle of nowhere – man, they sure scared me more than any werewolf or vampire," He chuckled to himself lightly, glad he could laugh about it now. It had taken a good few days, but Dean had tracked down that ship, and that family had had hell to pay. That wasn't the first time, nor the last, that Dean proved that no one got to fuck with his little brother. _Not if they wanted to live_.

Castiel was chuckling too at his side, in the early evening haze. His eyelids were drooping: they were both pretty drunk, having finished one and a half bottles of Sam's incredibly strong rum between them. After eating so little – and generally, being lightweights when it came to drink – its effect was starting to take its toll.

The conversation had started out as a discussion about the likely ports they would stop at on route to St. Mary's, and whether or not they would be able to get all the way there with one ship, or would have to bargain their way onto another. That had then progressed into the two of them talking about their favourite ports – their favourite, and least favourite, voyages . . . And eventually, Sam's horror stories from being a pirate that Castiel, while not approving of them, found fascinating.

When the laughter died down, and the two of them were just staring at each other, breathless and smiling, Castiel found that he was beginning to feel – well, he supposed he would refer to it as _affection_ for Sam Winchester. He admired him, truly. And with the way the pirate was swaying where he sat – having consumed more alcohol than the officer had – and the fog of alcohol he himself was currently labouring under, he looked . . . Well, he – he was-

"But seriously," Castiel interrupted his own thoughts, "You cannot truly believe in the creatures you describe," He wagered, slurring his words slightly.  
"Pfft," Sam waved his doubts away, gulping down more of his drink. "Why would I make them up?"  
"To hide your crimes?" Castiel guessed.  
"Yeah, cause I've done such a good job of _that _so far," Sam pointed out sarcastically. "I mean, here I am, with _you _– and, well, people know my name, they know what I do! Well, maybe not _everything _I do, and they might not know me by my real name-"  
"I see. You are somewhat of a-" Castiel hiccupped, "-celebrity,"

Sam laughed. It started as a giggle at the surprisingly cute little noise Castiel made when he hiccupped, then progressed to a full belly laugh as he thought about the concept he'd just broached.  
"Yeah, right!" Maybe he was an urban legend or an underground antihero, but he wasn't _famous_. He could hear Dean's reaction to that right now –_ if I'm so famous, how come I don't get laid more often?_

In his fits of laughter he slumped down onto his side, unwittingly hitting a rock on his way down. He cursed, rubbing the back of his head, and pouting like a small child might. Castiel laughed to himself – it seemed he was doing more and more of that as he imbibed greater quantities of alcohol.

And as he spent more time around Sam.

". . . Can I tell you something?" He asked Castiel, rolling his head to better see the officer. Sighing, Castiel shuffled closer, until he was kneeling above Sam. In the light of the sunset, and the flickering luminescence of the fire, the tattoos on Sam's bare chest seemed to dance and flicker, as if the ink were running, trailing from his skin like words from the pages of a book.

That was what he supposed Sam was, really. More than a pirate – more than the sum of his parts. These tattoos, while being a part of his pirate lifestyle, also detailed it like a story – each from a different, often difficult time in his life; each with its own purpose. He didn't need Sam to tell him that, explicitly. Maybe it was the alcohol, and maybe more time staring at them, but . . . He got it now. He could read Sam's life like a book, with his skin as the paper.

But he didn't know every story. So he let Sam tell another.

"Of course," He replied, after a long pause. Sam was just grinning up at him, no doubt amused by Castiel's long pause, and assuming it was just due to a drunken stupor setting in . . . Maybe it was, he reasoned, as he saw a glazed-over quality to Sam's eyes.

". . . I didn't choose this," Sam said, staring up at the stars, which were fading into focus in the midst of the purple and blood-orange sky.  
"You were born into it. I know," Castiel replied – not dismissively, but empathetically. Sam, in his inebriated state, may not have realised that Castiel was also referring to his own career path, and the fact that his family had all but forced him into it.

"I wanted to be a writer, or a . . . A scholar," Sam added, frowning as he momentarily sought the words he was looking for. "I never wanted this life. I used to _hate_ it," His speech patterns were erratic, but the confession was clear.  
"Used to?" Castiel asked, dragging his eyes from Sam's body to look at his face. Sam's arms shifted, the muscles swimming beneath the skin, until he was resting his head on his hands. Castiel swallowed, feeling rather conflicted about this whole situation.

He'd already crossed the line. He was getting drunk, with a pirate – a wanted, smart, _attractive_-

"I got out, once . . . For years – three, four-" He waved his hand, before replacing it beneath his head. "But the life came back – it always did . . . They found me,"  
"The navy?" Castiel presumed. But the younger man shook his head, his eyes wandering off to peer into the midst of the fire.  
". . . The demons," He whispered.  
"Demons?"

Sam nodded, shutting his eyes for a moment, and taking a deep breath that made the sigils on his ribs expand, before shrinking once more, with the minute stretches and movement of his muscles and skin. Castiel watched, fascinated. It seemed he enjoyed staring, when he was drunk. Sam didn't notice at that moment.

"Yeah, they – well, Dean came and got me. Said there was a job that needed doing near the town where I lived, and dad was missing, so . . ."  
"You completed the job?" Castiel prompted.  
"Yeah – a woman in white. Type of ghost," He clarified, opening his eyes and staring up at the sky.  
"And you returned home?" Castiel pressed, thoroughly interested now. This was a side of the pirate he had never been looking for; had never tried to find.  
"It . . . Wasn't my home anymore. Not without her," Sam replied, finally looking Castiel in the eye.

Castiel's heart sank with the implication. Both the fact that Sam's espoused had died, and the fact that, well . . . '_Her_'.

"I am sorry," He said solemnly.

Sam cocked his head to one side, leaning up on his elbows suddenly, and really examining Castiel – as if for the first time.  
"You . . . Really meant that," He realised.  
"Of course," Castiel replied, nodding sincerely.  
". . . Huh," Sam replied, slowly lying back down, and taking a minute to adjust to the change in position. His head was spinning. ". . . After that, it was just sailing for me – forever. You see the one there?" He asked, pointing to his left calf. Castiel craned his head to view the tattoo he was referring to, and Sam lifted up his leg, almost kicking him in the face. He dodged, and Sam snorted quietly to himself at the sight of Castiel rearing back unceremoniously from the limb. The officer grabbed it, and held it up, looking where Sam was pointing.

"The compass?" Castiel asked. The thing could almost have been mistaken for a star – but four of the points had the points of the compass etched in next to them.  
"Yeah – I got that two weeks later. To remind myself who I really am. I'll always find my way back to this . . . It's in my blood, I guess," He finished softly, his eyes drooping slightly. The sun was down now – it was getting darker. He felt the brush of Castiel's fingers against his tattoo, feather-light and sensitive, as if Castiel didn't wish to sully himself with the taint his skin might bring. But, Sam thought as the touches made him relax for the first time in days – _weeks, months, years_ – he wasn't stopping.

Castiel nodded, looking up from the tattoo to Sam, still holding his leg up. He saw Sam's head drooping, and his eyes shut, and frowned.  
"Sam?" He asked, setting his leg down and shuffling towards his head. Perhaps that knock on the head had done the boy more damage than first expected. He touched his neck, moving his hand up to cup his face with a frown, his fingers tangled in the messy shock of brown hair as he leaned over the younger Winchester. He felt no blood, so the damage couldn't have been too serious.

The younger Winchester's eyes fluttered open, and he was greeted with the sight of a frowning Castiel, worried and yet still amused at Sam's behaviour.  
"Cas?" He asked, raising one eyebrow with a smile that Castiel had often seen on the faces of drunk men in drinking establishments.  
"What?" The officer replied.

Leaning up on one elbow, Sam Winchester quickly swept in, pushing himself upwards until he was nose-to-nose with his ally and enemy. Before Castiel could even comment on the suddenness of the move, Sam moved in for a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss.

Castiel's eyes widened, and he was frozen with his fingers still interweaved with the pirate's brown locks, caught in a moral dilemma for a moment. _No, this is not – I should not be kissing a pirate – it doesn't matter if it is Sam Winchester _–

That was the moment he realised that Sam had become worth more to him than other pirates. And, while he knew Sam was drunk – as was he himself, or he would not have approached Sam, or touched him, or encouraged him – and was probably just intending to use him, before abandoning him or _worse_ . . . He kissed back.

_Perhaps he will not remember this. _

_Perhaps no one will ever know_.

Castiel was surprised how enthusiastic Sam was: while lengthy, the kiss had a pace that he struggled to keep up with. It surprised the officer, as Sam was usually so thoughtful and a little reserved when sober – but at that moment, he was acting on his baser instincts, it seemed.

The pirate just kissed and licked, nipping at the bottom lip of the other man without really thinking much at all. He wanted this – he _needed _this-

Castiel jumped when he felt Sam reach out with the hand that wasn't supporting him, to grasp his belt, pulling him closer in one insistent movement, until they were flush against each other. It was only then that he pulled away, looking doubtfully at Sam's face.

The pirate stared up at him, blinking blearily, his cheeks a watercolour of pinkish red, and his eyelids failing to obey him, even as he smiled still.

_He needed this. He needed-_

Slowly yet surely, Sam's elbow shifted beneath him, until it was no longer supporting him. Castiel smiled a little as his companion slipped to the sand beneath him, falling asleep in the middle of a slurred, "Do ya wanna . . . ?"

He grabbed Sam's coat, and placed in on top of the young man's body, even as he thought to himself, _what have you done? _

This was something that was not going to be forgotten easily – and frighteningly enough, he did not wish to forget it. Not just yet. He knew he and Sam were to part ways soon, but . . . Perhaps another night.

But that was all. He was a pirate, and eventually, he would hang. But for now . . . Well, he would to deny the boy what he wanted so badly (and what he had secretly wanted, too).

That is, until he was sober.

* * *

"Sam – Sam, wake up," Urged a voice right beside his ear, making him jerk into wakefulness.  
"Go 'way, Dean-" He mumbled, rolling over and pulling one arm over his face.  
"Sam! There's a ship – we have company,"

He removed the arm from his face, ignoring his killer headache to open his eyes. It was still dark – the visage of Castiel loomed above him, his gaze anxiously flitting between Sam's face and the sea. Sam sat up slightly, looking towards the water.

"Get your clothes on, gather your things – they're coming for us," Castiel confirmed, as Sam's eyes widened.

The light of the moon barely showed the figure shrouded in darkness, rowing towards them. It was clear where he had come from: in the distance, the silhouette of a ship sat, foreboding and shadowy. Sam, however, could still make out the colour of the sales: a sulphurous yellow.

Sam's heart sank, as he realised whose attention they had attracted; who, exactly, was coming for them. Castiel looked at him, his eyes full of anxious hope for the first time in days; it ebbed away gradually, as he saw the way Sam had paled upon seeing the ship. He frowned at Sam, who looked up at him nervously, before murmuring a gentle:  
"I'm sorry,"


	4. Chapter 4

**_AN:_**_ new chapter time! Obligatory reminder that this story is also published on my tumblr (itshellfiredean), where you can also find edits for this fic by tumblr user samsfire. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

"Well I'll be _damned_,"

Sam stood his ground, as the hooded figure emerged from the row boat sent from the ship that loomed in the distance. Cas stood behind him, at his shoulder – though he was clearly ready to fight, Sam realised the officer was probably even more scared than he himself was. After all, these people would skin him alive if they knew who he was . . . _Literally_, he thought, with a gulp.

But when the person spoke, he frowned, cocking his head to the side.

". . . Sam Winchester," She finished, stepping forward and further toward the light of the fire, that had drawn the attention of the passing ship.

Sam cursed. He had hoped to remain anonymous. Not that it would matter – as soon as they boarded the ship, they would be recognised. He was beginning to think they should just wait it out – this wasn't safe, for either of them (but especially Cas).

Her eyes glowed red in the darkness momentarily, though it could have been a trick of the light. She took her hood down, though it still covered her body. ". . . And who is this?"  
"That doesn't concern you," Sam gritted out, his hand at his holster, ready to draw his pistol at any moment. The brunette smiled at him, her expression seductive yet unquestionably _dangerous_.  
"Sure it does. You signalled for help, right?" She purred.  
"Not from you," He replied quickly. "Get back to your ship. We don't need your help,"  
"Well that's tough, Sammy. You're coming with me," She replied, promptly drawing a pair of guns from beneath her cloak, quick as a flash, before either of the two men could react. ". . . Dead or alive. And just _think _of all the horrible things we could to do Dean with the blood of his one surviving relative? . . . You know enough about hoodoo – enough about _us _– to know we'll make him _scream_," She laughed sadistically, and Sam wanted badly to run at her, guns be damned. He'd tear her apart.

The thing in front of him wasn't human, after all. Not after being on that ship so long.

"Now be a doll, get in the boat, and start rowing,"

Sam flared his nostrils angrily, his face set into an expression of hate fuelled by fear.  
"Sam . . ." Cas whispered in his ear nervously – he supposed it was supposed to be a warning, but in reality, he should have been the one warning Cas about what exactly that ship was.

Put shortly, it was hell. And its crew were demons.

Slowly, Sam made his way towards the boat, stepping into it and taking up an oar. The woman's guns were eagerly trained on both him and Castiel, but her focus was on Cas at that moment. Cas was frowning at Sam – he shook his head at the pirate.

But Sam just stared at him, his mouth a grim line, and his face shadowy away from the fire. He seemed . . . Defeated. Castiel wondered for the hundredth time who these people were to the younger Winchester: they must be terrible, if just _one_ of them was able to so easily break his spirit. Hence, his reluctance to take this circumstance with no fuss.

"Quickly, pretty boy. I don't wanna have to get my brothers and sisters. They won't be as _gentle _as I am if you make them come over here," She pointed out.

Looking to Sam, but seeing that he was just staring into the black water that lapped at the half of the boat in the sea, Cas sighed in defeat, and took his place beside Sam in the boat.

She didn't holster her weapons: as they began to row out into the ocean and towards the ever-growing silhouette of her ship, she kept her weapons trained on them.  
"This is gonna be a _scream_,"

* * *

Setting their feet on the boards of a ship for the first time in a few days should have felt like coming home, to both men – especially Sam, who had known very little else. It should have felt like security, and the return of companionship, and a sense of _belonging_. Instead, all both men felt was apprehension, and fear. For Castiel, it was fear of the unknown. For Sam, it was an old fear conjured anew, after many years.

A crew of shadowy, jeering figured greeted them – as their chaperone blended into the crowd of attractive women and dashing men, their looks enhanced with years of hoodoo and demonic deals, the throng began to surround them from all angles. The hollering and mocking laughter made the two men stay steadfastly at one another's' sides, united against a common enemy.

Between the bolder, more seasoned faces, Sam could make out a few terrified yet curious faces in the crowd. Knowing the ship's MO, he wasn't surprised. It didn't matter who the captain was – they all worked in the same way: attacking ships, slaughtering the majority of their crews, and claiming the souls of those they chose to spare. They lived on, terrified, as crew of this ship, unsure of which day would be their last; suffering mental, emotional and often physical torture and violence. The ones who had been there the shortest period of time peered at Sam and Castiel nervously, fresh horror blooming in their eyes; the older ones – more twisted, more jaded – having become the torturers themselves rather than the tortured many years back, rubbed their hands together with glee.

_Fresh meat_.

The two of them stood their ground as the crew yelled filth and vitriol at them, threatening to do things that made Castiel pale, and made even Sam curl his toes. But Sam's thoughts were not with them at that moment – no, he was busy wondering who their captain was.

The Hellfire changed its captain a lot: power struggles and mutinies were common, with the helm changing hands between some of the most vile, cruel people to ever step aboard a ship frequently, depending on changes in the balance of power. Each tried to hold onto control by creating an atmosphere of fear, and demanding full obedience through it.

Changes in captaincy didn't change the overall goal of the ship – torture and devastation were always the net result of its voyages. But depending on who the captain was, this situation might not be as awful as the two of them anticipated.

However, not hearing Sam's internal thought processes, Castiel didn't know this. He didn't know anything much about the Hellfire – truth be told, he believed it was a myth. A captain and a crew, the embodiment of hell, out on the open water, slaughtering and torturing and just generally being _evil _with no real aims. It was fantastical.

So, as he stood there, having seen the name of the vessel scratched at length into the bough with what looked to have been fingernails, he was having trouble suspending his disbelief. And remaining conscious and upright.

"My, my," A weaselling voice began, and Sam felt a shiver as cold as ice envelop him from head to toe at the very sound of it. _There_ was the answer to his question.

_Oh God, no_.

The crowd parted, and a tall man, with a face fit to accompany a voice that strange and sinister, appeared. His crew cowered around him – even the most hardened and experienced of them bowed their heads. Castiel frowned at the sight of it: even the navy would not demand a level of obedience – drawing a line between servitude and primal terror that leaned more to the latter – on par with what he was viewing.

His cheeks were sunken and sallow, and his scruff-covered skin pasty. His grey, empty eyes were underlined with dark circles, unsettling and utterly devoid of positive emotion. Right now, though, they had a familiar shine – at least, it was familiar to Sam. It was the shine they had when he'd explained all the terrible things he'd done to Dean – and that Dean had done – during his time aboard this ship.

It was the same shine that had made his unflappable brother, his captain, later break down and confess all the things he had done to innocent people during his year as a crew-member of the Hellfire, before he'd been thrown overboard.

He'd survived. Sam doubted that he and Castiel would.

"Alastair," Sam hissed.  
"Sam Winchester . . . Where's my favourite pupil?" The captain crooned.  
"Dean isn't your pupil," Sam gritted out, making to step forward. Castiel took his shoulder with a grip strengthened by fear, halting his progress. ". . . And he's not here," Sam finished, his eyes flicking to Castiel. The officer simply stared back with a warning in his eyes. _Do not endanger us further. _

"Such a pity . . . He was so much _fun_. And so _loyal_, too," Alastair's smile widened. Sam's fists clenched by his side, as the crew whooped and laughed at him.  
"I thought we killed you," The younger Winchester said, trying not to be goaded into a response.  
"What, with your little demon-blood powers? . . . Sorry, Sam. Looks like you failed that, as well. Quite the little screw-up, aren't you, boy?"

Sam was shaking now with rage, his eyes dark and boring into the captain's face. Alastair simply raised an eyebrow in challenge.  
"So – come to join my crew, have you?"  
"Never," Sam spat.  
"And who's your buddy?" Alastair said, referring Castiel.  
"Cas," Castiel answered, trying to sound authoritative, but was laughed at with derision all the same.  
"He's a member of my crew. We went overboard during a storm," Sam explained.  
"And so you were waiting on an island, signalling for someone to come and help you," Alastair surmised. "Isn't that . . . _Cute_," He finished, and received roars of laughter from the crowd. It wasn't clear to Sam or Castiel whether they laughed out of genuine amusement, or simply in fear of the consequences if they didn't.

"Is that all? We'd rather not spend any more time here than necessary," Sam interrupted the jeering. Alastair raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, smiling patronisingly at them.  
"What, and give up the opportunity to have the second Winchester brother in my service? Not to mention this fine young specimen," Alastair approached the two of them, standing close to Castiel, and looking him in the eye.

"Search his bag," He barked at his crew. Sam's eyes widened, and he clung onto the satchel possessively, even as it was wrestled away from him with relative ease. "No!" He protested, though with the sheer number of them accosting him he didn't stand a chance.

His heart sank even lower, hitting the deck as he realised what they would find in there. Several of the crew fought over the possessions, spilling them onto the wooden boards below their feet. Sam felt violated as they pored over his telescope, and pocketed the few shillings in there; pulled out – _oh no, please, no_ – his father's journal, opening it up and putting their hands all over it. While he was distracted, someone pulled his pistol from its holster; he barely registered his own sword being wrenched from him, as he witnessed Castiel having his sword stolen while trying to step in front of him.

"Captain!" One of the crew cried. Looking over, Sam saw the grinning face of none other than a man who had called himself Brady when he'd known him. A man who had pretended to be his friend, when he'd lived a civilian life with Jess; the same man who'd killed Jess, when the incumbent captain of the Hellfire – a man called Azazel – had ordered it. Brady was holding something Sam couldn't make out at first, in the cold light of the moon. But then he realised – _Castiel's naval wig_.

"Found this in his satchel. Playing for both teams again, Sammy?" He mocked. Sam lunged forward, his fury at Brady's past crimes resurfacing with an explosive vengeance as he threatened his and Castiel's lives with his discovery. This time, as well as Castiel's hand on his shoulder, he was greeted with a punch to the stomach by a nearby crew-member – muscle bound, scarred face, probably been part of the crew for around ten years – who then moved to flank him with one of his compatriots, holding him back. He struggled, as Alastair turned his attention to Brady.

His satisfaction at the fact that even Brady looked afraid of his captain was cold comfort, as Alastair turned back to his two new captives with narrowed eyes.  
"Unless Sammy has chosen to betray his brother yet again in the worst possible way – and I don't put it past him . . ." He began, his eyes sliding over the younger Winchester, whose faced was bent into an ugly scowl of vehement anger. ". . . Your friend here is a naval officer,"

Low whistles and angry yells followed his statement, almost drowning out Castiel's excuse:  
"I stole that. It . . . Is worth a lot, to some people. Monetarily," He floundered.  
"A strange story – just like your story about being one of the Impala's crewmen," Alastair commented, growing even closer to Castiel, and drawing a small, sharp knife from his belt. Sam started, struggling harder in the grip of the two men holding him.

Trying to back away from the approaching captain, Castiel found himself similarly restrained. Bravado became his only form of defence, as he tried staring the captain down.

"You see, I heard another story – I heard through my extensive network of contacts that Sam Winchester fought with the First Mate of the HMS Celestial – I heard he cut him, right _here_," He emphasised the last word by yanking at the sleeve of Castiel's coat, which had a fine cut where Sam had managed to strike him several days earlier, causing a shallow cut that was now mainly healed.

Slowly, tortuously, he began to dig his knife into the wound, moving it in a sawing motion. Castiel tried to remain silent for as long as possible, but couldn't help hissing, and slamming his eyes shut. Alastair just continued.  
"I heard they went overboard when the Impala was captured – I heard my apprentice will hang-" Castiel cried out, and Alastair smiled. ". . . But I have never heard of a man named Cas before,"  
"Leave him alone!" Sam yelled, almost bolting free, before being subdued with a sharp punch to the face. Reeling and spitting blood, he raised his head again, just in time to see Castiel exclaim,  
"Please! . . . Stop!"

Alastair paused, his knife now quite deep into Castiel's arm. He smirked, withdrawing his knife as involuntary tears formed in the officer's eyes.

"Take them to the brig . . . We'll have them tame enough to serve very soon, boys," Alastair told his crew, who cheered, hooting and howling like rabid animals, simultaneously full of instinctual fear and bloodlust.

Bruised and bleeding, Sam and Castiel were dragged into the depths of the ship, down many rotting wooden steps, through foul-smelling quarters, and into a portion of the ship locked with some of the most extravagant equipment Sam had ever seen. In his bleary state, he found he couldn't quite make out the symbols that adorned the large bolt on the outside of the room they were dragged into, but they couldn't have been good news. Nothing on this ship could.

Once in the room, he and Castiel were shoved into a cell lined by decaying yet still steadfast iron bars. Making a fleeting break for it, Sam scrambled for the door – one of the men who had escorted them down stopped him easily with another blow to the head. His vicious uppercut sent Sam flailing backwards and to the floor, smacking his head against it. He didn't dare open his eyes, as his head rang with the sound of vicious laughter, and the sound of the ironed barred door swinging shut behind him.

Sam and Castiel were left battered on the floor, soaking up the stench of blood, damp and despair.

They both heard the large deadlocked door to the room slam shut, and the echoes of the laughter from behind it fade away, until the sound of the sea outside and their own laboured breathing were the only things they could hear. They were left with the familiar swaying of the sea – the one that should have been comforting to them – lulling them into a sleep that could have been dangerous to either of them at that moment, with Sam nursing a concussion and Castiel's blood-loss.

Wincing at the feeling of movement, Sam took several tries to pull himself into a sitting position, groaning as his face pulsed with the memory of a calloused fist pummelling it; the back of his head, where he'd hit the floor, made him feel nauseous. His stomach, too, was tender with abuse. But that wasn't important right now.

He took off his coat, haphazardly ripping the sleeves from his shirt with little regard for himself, before pulling the coat back on for warmth. He approached Castiel, and spoke to him as gently as he could manage while still feeling a little confused and in pain:  
"Cas? . . . Gonna – here, your coat-" He tried to explain, as he started to Castiel's coat from his injured arm. The officer hissed, his eyes squeezing firmly shut. He complied, though – he knew, deep down, that even though Sam was a pirate, and was going to hurt him more for a little while, he was ultimately going to help him. His goal appeared to be to save Castiel's life.

Sam didn't know, yet, that he was simply returning the favour Castiel had given him, having pulled him from the sea and pushed the water from his lungs a short while ago.

Sam pulled the sleeves of Castiel's coat down as carefully as he could manage, and dabbed the excess blood away from the wound as best he could. He folded the first sleeve of his own shirt into a pad, and held it against the wound to stem the bleeding. Then, as best he could, he used the material of the other one to tie the pad tightly in place, to maintain the pressure. Even if he passed out, now, Castiel wouldn't be in immediate danger.

"They probably won't let me give you stitches," He told Castiel, wincing as the sound of his voice boomed too loud for his fragile head to cope with. His hangover was making an appearance, now, as well as the blows to his head complicating matters severely.  
"I dare say . . . You're in no condition to give them . . . Anyway," Castiel panted, breathing through the pain. ". . . Thank you," He told Sam, genuinely thankful for his presence in this mess, despite everything that he'd convinced himself was Sam's fault.

"S'okay," Sam sighed, choosing to slump from his upright kneeling position beside Castiel, to lying down on the filthy floor beside him. Oddly, Castiel felt Sam grip his wrist lightly, even as he lost consciousness – Castiel had deemed that inevitable, what with the pirate's exhaustion, prior inebriation and head injury. But the grip on his wrist was unexpected.

As he too began to drift off (which he was thankful for, as it was preferable to experiencing the pain from the knife wound while conscious), he thought that he was glad of the physical contact. If they were wrenched apart, they would know. And if they were not, and were left to rot down here together, as was likely the case . . . Well, they would feel the presence of each other there, alive, at all times, even throughout their ordeal.

It was a small comfort. But it was _something_, he told himself, as a blackness tainted by the stench of blood and death claimed him for a stretch of restless, pain-addled sleep.

* * *

Castiel stood and stared. He didn't know how long he'd been doing it now – _a few hours? All night_? – but he wasn't about to stop. He'd tucked his arm into the pocket of his coat, preventing it from bending and irritating the wound that Sam had sloppily dressed earlier on.

He'd only had a small amount of sleep: the pain from his injury, which had stopped sluggishly bleeding now, thankfully, had roused him. He was beginning to suspect, given that a single ray of light was passing into the brig through the deck above them, displaying a whirlwind of swirling dust motes that moved in time with the sway of the ship, that morning was breaking on the Hellfire.

He stared at the door, trying to make out the symbols scratched into the wood, which was stained with a reddish-brown that Castiel would have liked to believe wasn't blood. Probably scratched into it by some long-lost crewmember. He sensed that each man aboard didn't have a very long tenure here, before being discarded or killed. Either that, or they appeared to stay forever . . . He supposed it depended on their level of depravity and desperation.

He heard a stifled groan behind him, and turned to look at his companion.

Castiel was taken aback, as he looked at Sam Winchester anew, how vulnerable this big, bad pirate he'd once wanted to hunt, and had dreamt of delivering to a hangman, was now. He was dawning on him that he and his ilk had made some huge errors in judgement when selecting their targets. Sam was . . . Fine, he was a criminal, and a pirate. But while he committed petty crimes for the good of his crew and family (wherever the line between them was drawn), he was _nothing_ compared to the men who crewed this ship.

And while he was lewd – and _God_, despite everything that was happening (or perhaps because of it, by way of a distraction), was he drawn back to that kiss every time he cause a glimpse of Sam's tattoos, or his lips – he was not evil.

These people were evil. It was their only purpose in life – to do wrong. They had no real goals, other than to cause misery, in the pursuit of power over others that they could abuse to generate more misery. And they must be stopped, of course. The navy had it wrong, chasing men such as Sam Winchester. This Captain Alastair seemed to be the real foe, in their fight against the piracy that blighted the seven seas.

But perhaps the navy had it right . . . Perhaps they picked off people such as Sam, and the ones who were a lesser evil, simply because it was _easier_. They appeared to gain results when they focussed on those who made port, and traded goods either obtained lawfully or stolen. These people . . . The navy would have no easy way of getting to them. Even if they did, they would be vastly outgunned simply by the savagery the crew here displayed. They acted on primal instinct, and the majority if them would clearly rather die than be taken alive.

They would be nearly impossible to combat. Perhaps that was why the navy ignored them, and focussed on smaller threats, while claiming they were winning the war on piracy.

. . . Castiel shook his head. _No _– yet again, Sam's way of thinking had gotten to him. The navy wasn't the enemy, here. Sam was . . . Well, maybe he wasn't. Not anymore.

But, unquestionably, those people out there were the ones who deserved his wrath. Not an injured man of faith, tossing his head back and forth in the throes of a restless sleep, willing to sacrifice everything to get back the brother he so dearly loved.

However, what he should be held accountable for was this plan. To say it was flawed was a huge understatement – as Castiel turned back to stare at the grim, stained door, he wondered if he had ever been anywhere as terrifying and hideous as this. Sam had insisted that he would be able to pass as a pirate, and that they would find safe passage . . . But these men had known Sam. Dean Winchester had been a crew member at one point, from what he gathered – and Sam had tried to kill the captain, too. He could stand that – the man was clearly evil, and needed to be stopped – but the part about Sam using his 'demon blood powers' . . . That had gone over his head. He was not sure he wished to understand.

"Cas . . ." He heard from behind him. He set aside his feeling of frustration towards the pirate for a moment, turning around to look at him once more.

Sam's eyes opened ever so slightly, showing a sliver of white and hazel each, which then quickly disappeared. Castiel couldn't see Sam much in the meagre light filtering through from the deck above, but from what he could see, he appeared pasty, and his eyes were screwed shut with pain.

"Cas?" He asked, his voice rough, as he reached out with his arms to his sides. Gradually, his eyes opened a little more. "You there?"  
"Yes. I am here," Castiel replied shortly.  
"Your arm-" Sam asked, raising a hand to his cheek, to cup the swelling area.  
"It is no longer bleeding . . . Thank you for that,"

Castiel's tone of voice was strange, and without being able to see his face, Sam couldn't quite make it out. But it sounded annoyed.

"What's wrong?" He asked, sitting up. He ventured the trip to his feet, and cautiously made his way upright. Shuffling over to the bars that formed the nearest wall, he clung to them, stooping slightly and staring at the ground to orientate himself. It was hard, when it was almost completely dark. He felt the rust on the bars he was clinging to deposit onto his fingers, and scrape his rough skin. He paid it no heed, though, looking up from the ground to see Castiel. He was just a silhouette at that moment, back-lit and unreadable.

". . . Nothing. Aside from the fact we are currently prisoners of a ship I had previously believed was only a myth, for it seemed far too evil and improbable to exist,"  
". . . Right," Sam replied warily. It was clear, now, that Castiel was angry at him.

"Is your head alright?" Castiel asked tersely.  
". . . Just feels like I got hit by, uh – a planet," Sam confessed, rubbing the back of it, and finding a small goose-egg growing. He winced once again, vowing to steer clear of touching the area for a while.  
"Yes, well . . ." Castiel replied snippily.  
"Hey, you got something to say?" Sam asked, already tiring of Castiel's passive aggression. Castiel just shifted his stance slightly. Sam frowned, wondering what the hell had gotten into his companion.  
"Not talking to me? . . . You seemed pretty friendly last night," Sam commented glibly.  
"You were the one who threw yourself at me," Castiel insisted.  
"I was drunk!" Sam cried, clearly floundering for a response beforehand. It was obviously an excuse.  
"And you used me. Or, rather – you were going to, before you fell asleep, I understand," Castiel replied, shaking his head.  
"What, you're gonna like you haven't used me, too? . . . You're using me right now, _Cas_. You wanted to get off that island, and onto a ship? Well, here you are," Sam finished sarcastically, throwing his arms out to his side, and indicating their surroundings.  
"You can hardly claim this was part of your plan!" Castiel insisted, taking a threatening step forward. Sam stood his ground.  
"Yeah, well – that's life, isn't it! I wanna go on a simple job? I end up marooned, with _you_. I wanna escape that island back there? I end up in the brig of a ship so fucking awful, my brother still has nightmares about it. With _you_. This isn't exactly a party for me, either!" He yelled. Castiel surged forward towards Sam, pressing his good arm against his chest, and pushing him with a sudden force against the bars of their cell.

Sam's eyes widened, as Castiel held him in place, using the weight of his body to pin him. He leant in close to Sam's face, his eyes narrowed.  
"I should have never trusted you, _pirate_," He hissed.

Sam just smirked at him, squinting back in the dull light. He could smell Castiel, could feel his breath on his face. Their foreheads were almost touching with the sudden proximity Castiel had initiated.

"Wanna know what I think?" Sam asked quietly.  
"No I do not," Castiel replied, inching impossibly closer.  
"I think you're just mad cause I wanted you, and you wanted me back," Sam told him, his voice quiet, and his eyes wandering down Castiel's face in the darkness. As he grew accustomed to it, he identified where Castiel's lips were; his gaze lingered on them as he continued: "You know it's wrong . . . But you can't help it . . . You _like_ it,"

Silent yet still breathing heavily with the effort he was exerting holding the pirate in place, Castiel looked him up and down. In the dim light, he could see that Sam's face was bruised – and, well, that should have been the thing that drew his eyes. But what actually held their attention was his lips: so pink he could see a dulled version of their colour, even in the dark. They were slightly parted, and curved into a very slight grin that made him forget all his awareness of their situation; the fact that they were on a ship crewed by the damned, and sure to be brought out for torture at any moment.

At that moment, even his negative emotions towards Sam – his anger at him for this plan going south, his fury at Sam pulling him overboard in the first place – were screaming at him to drive forward, and kiss that attitude out of the boy. For _starters_.

He remembered what those lips had felt like last night – wet, and sloppy, and tasting of rum. He wondered what they'd taste like sober. He bit the bullet.

Crashing his face forward into Sam's, he ignored his embarrassingly un-manly squeak of pain as he drove forward, wiping Sam's smirk from his face and pressing his injured head into the bars behind him. He realised Sam was kissing back immediately, equally as frustrated as the officer was at their situation, and at one another. The kiss was more aggressive than last night's: Castiel felt Sam's hands snake into his coat, gripping his waist for purchase, his fingers digging in. Castiel grabbed at the iron bars by Sam's head, pressing himself further forward into the pirate. He felt Sam's hands slip up and under his shirt, his fingers grazing the largely unmarked skin of his torso, and tracing the ripples of his ribs underneath it. He shivered slightly, breaking from the kiss for a moment.

Sam's sultry gin was enough to convince him to resume the activity – this time, he went for Sam's jawline, peppering it with kisses until, against his better judgement, Sam lifted his head, exposing his throat submissively to the officer, who progressed downwards to it. He planted a particularly bruising kiss to the juncture where his shoulder met his neck, causing Sam to bite his lip, to stifle a noise of satisfaction that he didn't want the other man hear right now. His grip on Castiel's ribs tightened, but he didn't flinch this time: he brought one of his hands to cup Sam's head on one side, tangling it in his hair, while continuing to kiss the other side of his neck, nipping it with his teeth until Sam couldn't help but let out a shaky sigh of satisfaction.

Castiel closed his eyes, savouring the moment and forgetting all else, other than his current angry passion for Sam – the man that he had vowed to one day help kill, and yet currently desperately wanted, even in the midst of his anger towards him.

Castiel brought his mouth level with Sam's ear, nipping his earlobe, before leaning in to growl:  
"Watch your mouth, _boy_,"

"I've read some bodice rippers in my time, but that line really takes the cake,"

The two men flinched, eyes frantically searching for the voice had come from. From the far end of the walkway between the two rows of cells either side of the brig, a figure approached, carrying a torch. Sam stared over Castiel's shoulder, while the officer himself turned his head to view the approaching crewman. Caught like deer in the headlights, they squinted to make out who the person was. Their shadow loomed on the wall, huge and terrifying to the two captives.

Suddenly feeling self-aware, Sam pulled his hands from under Castiel's shirt; this prompted Castiel to remove his hands from Sam's hair and body, blushing slightly, and cursing himself for it.  
"Who's there?" Sam asked, summoning his bravado.  
"Don't you remember me?" The voice asked sarcastically, as its owner stepped closer. A moment of confusion came across the two men, who realised, as the person approached, that they were a whole lot shorter than their shadow had made them seem.

"I sure remember you, Sammy," The voice teased, as the owner reached their cell, stepping up to the bars, and holding the torch aloft to cast light across the scene. The two men squinted, unaccustomed to the sudden illumination, and took in the appearance of their visitor.

She was short, with pale skin, and long, black hair. Her eyes were black, and with immeasurable depth; her jacket and boots made of black leather, and her shirt made of a deep purple fabric, repaired with stitches in several areas. She wore a black medallion on a string, around her neck.

And yes, Sam did remember her.  
"Meg," He greeted her unhappily, his lip curled in revulsion. Castiel looked to Sam for his reaction, before looking at the woman, and wondering what she was doing here.  
"Is it not unlucky to have women aboard a ship?" He asked, thinking back also to the one who had brought them aboard.  
"Not from round these parts, are ya?" Meg dismissed condescendingly, looking Castiel up and down with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous smile. She turned to Sam, and said: "Really got yourself in deep trouble this time, didn't you, Sammy?" She asked with another grin.  
"It's Sam," He replied, stepping forward until he was at the bars, staring back at her through them. Castiel approached behind him, flanking his shoulder, and peering down at the petite woman.  
"Getting yourself locked up on the Hellfire . . . And shacking up with your enemy," She added.  
"It's none of your damn business what I do!" Sam yelled at her, remembering her past crimes against his family and crew – but mainly himself.  
"Why have you come here? To gloat?" Castiel asked her, drawing her attention back from her old 'friend' once more.  
"Not so, sugar-pants . . . I've come to make a deal," She explained. Sam unconsciously pushed Castiel a little further behind himself, as he replied:  
"You're not having our souls," He began with a sense of finality. "I don't care what you-"  
"Not for your souls, dumbass – for this ship," She clarified, gesturing to the ship, and looking up at the deck above them for a moment.

That gave Sam and Castiel pause. She arched an eyebrow at them, before continuing:  
"But I'll get there later. Firstly, Sammy – you've got some 'splainin' to do . . ."


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN: **__chapter 5! Thanks for all your support, I hope you're all enjoying the story. Obligatory reminder that you can also find this story on my tumblr (itshellfiredean), as well as graphics by tumblr user samsfire. _

_Hope you enjoy the new chapter :))_

_EDIT: accidentally uploaded the wrong chapter! I think they had similar word counts, so I got confused - I'm an idiot! Thanks to Keisuke Sora for poiting that out :))_

* * *

"And I thought _I _was a fuck-up," Meg chuckled, in stitches at Sam's story. He'd explained to her how they'd gone overboard while fighting, before slowly forming an alliance with each other, despite being enemies. She calmed herself, looking back to Sam's unamused face. Castiel was frowning at her, not understanding how she could find so much pleasure in the misfortune of others. Sam, of course, knew that it was commonplace for the crew of this ship to revel in others' pain, and thought nothing of it, having met Meg before.

"But you two, well . . . At what point in that story did you start fucking?" She asked, arching an eyebrow and looking between them, still smirking happily.

Sam shifted on his feet. Castiel went bright red.  
"We, uh . . ." Sam began, gesturing with his hands. Castiel scratched the back of his head. "We aren't," He denied weakly.  
"No use denying it – I just walked in on you moaning like a cheap whore," She pointed out, obviously addressing Sam. The look of anger on his face, from where Castiel was standing, was hilarious, he found (even despite their situation). He had to admit, this woman really could make his companion squirm.  
"It's true," Castiel added. It was clear he thought he was being helpful, but Sam turned to look at him, his eyes widening in frustration and humiliation.  
"Oh, so you didn't seal the deal, huh? What's the matter, Sammy? You got a headache?" She asked, pointing at his head injury with a look of mock-concern.  
"Too drunk, last night," Castiel supplied, joining in the teasing.  
"Cas!" Sam snapped. "Am I the only one who actually wants to get the fuck outta here?!"  
"Easy, tiger," Meg told him, finally laying off the insults and jibes. "Keep quiet. You can't plan a secret mutiny if everyone's yelling about it,"  
"Then, by all means, tell us your plan," Sam invited sarcastically, ire bubbling just under the surface of the comment, building up as he thought over how much time they'd already spent down here; how much time he'd wasted telling Meg their full story, with few details spared, on her insistence. Aside from the fact that Alastair could have them brought out at any moment for torture, _or worse_, Castiel's arm was in dire need of stitches. His shirt sleeves wouldn't hold as an adequate dressing much longer.

"Sure thing," She replied, her hand going to her belt, and pulling back her coat to show them the hilt of a knife. Sam took an instinctual step backwards - he was surprised, still, to feel Castiel's hand on his shoulder pulling him back protectively, too.

"Relax," She told them, "If I was gonna kill you, don't you think I would have done it by now? . . . To be honest, if this plan goes wrong, you're gonna wish I just stabbed you in the first place," She thought out loud.  
"Any time today, Meg," Sam replied, irritably. She snorted, shaking her head in amusement at how powerless they were. She was in control here, and she knew it.

Castiel frowned, not trusting this stranger one bit. As one of the crew of this ship, she was surely bad news . . . But, he supposed, she was the only help they were going to get. Whether or not she was legitimately volunteering to help them or not remained to be seen.

"This is an ancient killing knife of the Kurds. Alastair doesn't know I have this," Meg told them, unsheathing the weapon and pulling it out to show them. The edge was serrated on one side, and smooth and sharp on the other; symbols Sam couldn't identify lined the blade.  
"It's a little small, isn't it?" Castiel asked doubtfully.  
"It's not the size, it's what you do with it," Meg told him, addressing the double-entendre at him directly, to make him uncomfortable. Before then, she'd mainly addressed Sam, clearly not sure where she stood with the officer. Obviously, he'd like her dead, but he could be vital to her plan . . . Maybe not with that gimp arm holding him back, though. She continued, ". . . And what it can do, in this case,"  
"What can it do?" Sam asked warily.  
"This is the only blade in the world – that I know of – that can kill Alastair. Or any other demon,"  
"Demon?" Castiel asked, incredulously.  
"Demons are damned souls," Sam replied, looking Meg in the eye the entire time. "They made deals with the devil for money, love – whatever. In exchange for their souls,"  
"So they cannot be killed?" Castiel asked, feeling the blood drain from his face, as he realised he _believed _in this nonsense. Not only that, but he actively feared these supposedly fictional creatures.  
"Not usually," Sam replied, eyeing Meg's knife, "They practise hoodoo to protect themselves and hurt others – plus they're stronger than humans, have powers . . . And aren't confined to one human host,"  
"_What_?!" Castiel asked, finally unable to suspend his disbelief.  
"Ever heard of demonic possession? . . . We burn through bodies like Sam's brother burns through cheap booze," Meg explained. Sam's nostrils flared at that, as he tried to contain his anger yet again. It seemed to Castiel that this Meg had a unique way of riling Sam – in that assumption, he was sure he was correct.

". . . And you are a demon," Castiel gathered, sizing her up. "A filthy abomination, as well as a pirate,"  
"Ooh, keep talking like that – makes my meat-suit all _gooey_," She told Castiel, biting her lip in mock attraction. He made a small noise of disgust, and turned away from her. She refocused on Sam.  
"Anyway, exposition over," She said sarcastically, "Me and a couple of the others think Alastair's outstayed his welcome. We're getting' a little tired of old Al – he's too focussed on the blood and the screaming and the torture aboard the ship. Won't make port for us to share our skills with people on dry land. Such a _shame_," She commented, inspecting the knife in the light of the torch as Sam watched carefully; Castiel pretended not to, but watched all the same. Knowing Meg, there was probably more to it than that - but he wasn't going to push his luck right now.

"He keeps too tight a leash on us," She elaborated, shaking her head and tutting. "We've been looking to make our move for a while now, we were just waiting for the right moment . . . And then _you_ showed up. You'd tip the odds in our favour, if you helped us – we'd outnumber crew loyal to Alastair. In the conflict, you could help me get close enough to use this thing on our fearless leader . . ."

"Oh yeah? . . . And what's in it for us?" Sam asked with a smirk.  
"Not dying?" She replied sardonically.  
"What _else_,"

Castiel could tell Sam was getting more and more frustrated, but trusted him to keep his cool. He had to – there was no other choice, right now.

Meg sighed. "We'll take you to Covenant. Drop you off there," She offered reluctantly.  
"No. We need to get to St. Mary's," The younger Winchester insisted.  
"With respect, Sam, a pirate vessel such as this arriving at St. Mary's . . . It would be a bloodbath," Castiel pointed out, drawing Sam's gaze. He noticed that the officer looked paler than usual, and had his arm tucked into the pocket of his jacket, so as to not jar it. He wondered if Castiel's attempt at being _rough_ with him earlier had exacerbated his injury. He needed help with it, and soon.

Meg just nodded at Castiel, indicating that she agreed. Sam sighed.  
"Fine. Drop us there. From there, I guess we'll find a ship that'll take us to St. Mary's,"  
"Covenant it is. Do we have a deal?" Meg asked, sheathing the weapon.  
"Not yet," Sam replied.  
"Sam," Castiel warned, nervously watching the door for anyone who might hear them, or be there to drag them up onto the deck and make them scream.  
"You'd be captain, if you killed Alastair?" Sam pressed on.  
"Got it in one," She replied, with a sinister smile.  
"And who are the others loyal to you?" He inquired.  
"You know, just a few of the crossroaders . . . Some of the more experienced sailors . . . A couple of Alastair's more terrified pupils . . . And Brady," She added nonchalantly.

"No," Sam refused, his brow a hard line as he ground out his utter refusal.  
"Sam, be rational!" Castiel urged him in a low voice, gripping Sam's arm with his own good one.  
"No!" Sam insisted, sweeping around to face Castiel, with a rage the likes of which Castiel hadn't yet seen in his eyes.

In that moment, Castiel heard the voices of his superiors echo in his head; the voices of those they'd interrogated about the Winchesters' whereabouts; his own voice, back on that beach.  
_The boy with the demon blood_.  
Now that he understood truly what it meant to be a demon, he felt slightly horrified, as he looked into Sam's rage filled eyes.

He understood, now, that it was perhaps not a turn of phrase, or a metaphor, but was meant literally. Did this make Sam part-demon? Was he truly an evil, inhuman creature? . . . Was Sam also able to change bodies, possessing humans? _Was the body he was talking to now even Sam's?_

He recoiled slight from the intensity of Sam's gaze, for the first time truly terrified of him. Sam seemed to notice, as Castiel abruptly let go of his coat, that something was different; that he had somehow scared Castiel. He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes for a moment, and running a hand down his face. It scraped against his stubble, as he tried to find a way to break this to Castiel, without appearing weak to Meg, who was watching intently.

"You don't understand, he-" He took a deep breath, and finished: "He was the one who killed her – my fiancée. He pretended to be my friend, but . . . He killed her, Cas. He's the reason I can't have a normal life,"

Castiel watched the angry intensity fade from Sam's eyes and voice alike, replaced in equal measure by emotional intensity that he was straining to contain.  
"He took that from me," He added, quieter this time.

"That may be so, but . . ." Castiel replied, summoning his courage to – yet again – make a deal with his enemy. Although 'deal with the devil' was more apt in this case; he felt as if he was about to compromise himself, yet again, just to survive. He questioned for a moment whether or not his struggle was worth it – was he even missed? If he were to explain his journey, and the alliances he'd formed, to his superiors, would they forgive him?

Would he be welcomed back at all?

He shook the sentiment off. He and Sam both needed to knuckle down, and disregard their emotions and moral judgements, for now. It was paramount to their survival.  
". . . I do not like this any more than you do. But it seems it is our only chance to regain our freedom, and getting to your brother,"

Sam bowed his head, looking at the floor; he clenched his jaw, and thought of Dean. _Just think of Dean. Now keep thinking about him. Don't forget him. It's all for him_.

Castiel watched warily as Sam straightened up, and turned back to Meg. He wondered if he felt any sort of kinship with her, being part-demon . . . Or, well, whatever he was. He did not wish to bring it up, for fear of incurring Sam's wrath. But surely a man as emotional as the younger Winchester – and one with faith, too – could not be one of these clearly-evil creatures? He could not come to terms with the enigma he'd been presented with, without Sam's input. But he was reluctant to ask for it - nor did he have time to.

"So . . . Will you help me become captain of the Hellfire?" Meg asked, with a quirk of her ever-moving eyebrows. It was getting on Castiel's nerves – but right now, he wasn't focussed on her. He was watching Sam with caution.  
"In return for safe passage to Covenant," Sam demanded.  
"I think we have a deal," Meg flashed a shark-like smile at the two of them, reaching a hand through the bars. Sam took it, shaking it once, and replying in kind.

Suddenly, he yanked her hand forward, so that her face was up against his, with the bars between them. Castiel took a step forward to intervene, but stopped when he heard Sam whisper:  
"You try and betray us? . . . I'll make sure that knife ends up in your fucking chest," He murmured, his words too soft for their intended meaning. She just laughed, squeezing his hand as tightly as she could, until he winced.  
"How about you get your damn hands off me, unless you wanna knock boots again," She replied sweetly, with another of her disconcerting smiles. "Not sure your _boyfriend _would approve, Sammy,"

Sam let go of her hand abruptly, and they looked one another up and down for a moment. Castiel looked between them, wondering exactly what their history was.  
"So it's settled then. Rainbows and dead puppies all around," Meg said, fishing a set of keys out of her pocket, and selecting the appropriate one. She unlocked the door to their cell, and the two of them eagerly hurried out of it. "Follow me," She told them, making her way further from the door, into the darkness of the rest of the brig.  
"Aren't we gonna leave?" Sam asked, confused.  
"What, out the front door? And they call you the smart one," Meg shook her head. "I've been around this place a long time. I know things about it than you would never even guess at. Including . . ." She gestured the way she had been walking, before being interrupted, "An alternative route out of the brig," She started walking again, the light of the torch growing smaller as she pressed on.

Before Castiel could make his way after her, Sam stopped him with a hand on his chest, looking down at his wound with a frown.  
"Let me have a look at this-" He mumbled, concerned. Castiel batted his hands away.  
"We do not have time. I will be fine," Castiel insisted, again making to leave.  
"Uh . . . What she said, just now-" Sam paused, running a hand through his hair, and narrowly avoiding the lump on the back of his head. Awkwardly, he attempted to clarify: "We never actually, uh . . ."  
". . . You have not had sexual intercourse with that woman – with that demon. I understand. Shall we go now?" Castiel asked irritably, pushing past to follow Meg, and Sam found himself taken aback – he hadn't known Castiel to be sarcastic, before. And yet . . .

Still a little surprised at Castiel's bluntness, Sam followed him deeper into the ship, and through the secret passage Meg had used to enter the prison.  
"Look on the bright side," Meg told them quietly, "At least you aren't gonna get some of your fingers removed slowly and painfully today, like Alastair wanted,"  
"Yes, we must thank God for that," Castiel muttered.

Sam couldn't suppress a small smile at his attempt at humour.

* * *

Meg pressed her face up to the keyhole of the door, looking out at the deck. Her mutinous gang of demons, plus two humans, waited patiently for her to announce her strategy for taking command of the ship.  
"Cover me long enough to get to Alastair. I can see he's at the helm . . . Crap. He's surrounded by loyalists . . . Either they sense something's up, or they just take a Winchester being on board as a bad sign. Like any sane person would," She commented irritably.

"What does that mean?" Sam asked, dead set on fulfilling his and Cas' part of the deal they'd made with Meg, so they could get the hell out of there.  
"It means, we're gonna have to fight our way to him. I was hoping to just sneak up and slit his throat," She admitted, leaning back from the door. She turned back to her troop of allies and giving them all a once-over.

Castiel. A good fighter, probably, given that he was in the royal navy, and had stood his own against Sam – but that gimp arm was gonna cause trouble, if he wasn't careful. Luckily not his sword-wielding arm, but still potentially debilitating.

Brady. The guy was a better talker than he was a fighter - and he was an even better liar than a talker. But when it got down to it, he wasn't above getting his hands dirty. In fact, she was hoping he would, in this instance, give in to the urge all demons had to get elbows-deep in blood and guts.

And Sam Winchester. Oh, Sammy – she'd fought him before, but having his skill on her side _for once_ was gonna be interesting; useful, too. Rather him decapitating her enemies, than exorcising her friends.

The rest of her sailors were a random assortment of crew members – young and old, small and large, either loyal to her or just plain sick of Alastair. All sorts. But variety wasn't a bad think, necessarily.

"Never known you to shy away from a fight, Meg,"

She watched the group turned to look at Brady with varying degrees of agreement and annoyance, once he had spoken. It was Sam's face that caught Meg's eye, though. She smirked at the hate she saw there – these guys made for interesting allies. Grudges and teamwork definitely made shitty bedfellows . . . _Usually_.

"Just cause you prefer your victims helpless to fight back," Sam spat at Brady. There was a low hum from the room, and several people shifted in anticipation of a good scrap.

Brady just grinned, cocking his head to one side and asking:  
"Aww – not still bitter about Jessica, are we? . . . And here I was, thinking you'd moved on," He indicated Castiel. Heads turned between Sam and Cas, and several voices laughed and jeered.  
"Would you two shut the fuck up so we can go ahead with this mutiny already?" Meg asked, her hand on the demon-killing knife. "Now, I've gotta be the one to stab Alastair so I can be captain, but he won't make it easy. There's only one demon-killing knife – but that doesn't mean throwing Alastair's goons overboard won't work just as well. Plus, if you can knock 'em out or cut their limbs off, that should keep them off your asses. Everybody clear?"

There was a round of nods, and some mumbled agreement. Sam felt a pang of homesickness tug at his heart, thinking of the countless briefings and meetings Dean had called to discuss strategy back on the Impala. He'd had the same authoritative tone in his voice - practically hard-wired into him by their dad - as Meg was using now, leaving no room for discussion or objection . . . Well, except for Sam, who wouldn't always agree with Dean; he'd try and mediate or improve Dean's plans, sometimes; other times, he would straight-up refuse to take part in them.

But he couldn't refuse now. He and Cas had made a deal.

"Where'd you get that thing, anyway?" Sam asked curiously, frowning again at the knife.  
"I'm surprised you don't remember it . . . It was my sister's, back when she was on vacation from the Hellfire, spending time with _you_," Meg replied, taking just a second to revel in Sam's surprised look.  
"That's Ruby's? . . . She had that the whole time?" He exclaimed.  
"Gold star, sugar-pants," Meg confirmed.

"Just how many of this ship's crew do you have some sort of sexual history with?" Cas hissed in Sam's ear, quiet enough that no one else would hear. He responded by stamping on Cas' foot, which also went largely unnoticed, though there were a few sniggers from around the cabin.

"Ready?" Meg asked, silencing them all once more.

The sound of swords being drawn echoed around the cabin; Meg grinned, and barked out an order:  
"Sick 'em, boys,"

In the flurry, Sam held onto Cas' good shoulder, and kept them close to Meg at all times. They didn't want to get caught in the close combat that was about to occur on the deck – Cas was in no state to defend himself from all angles, and Sam didn't want to leave him. He still needed him, to get to Dean – and, despite _everything_, and though he was reluctant to admit it, he cared what happened to Cas, too.

They ran with the charge across the deck, breaking from the cabin and heading straight for the helm. Cas held his arm fast, making sure it wasn't jostled, and spied Alastair: he was, even in the watery light that broke on the Hellfire, somehow shadowy and grey. He was turning around, his face wrenched in anger at what was clearly about to happen, surveying his men being cut down with the sound of metal-on-metal, and metal on flesh.

In the commotion the mutiny was causing, people were running in all directions; most of them headed for Meg, as it became apparent what she was trying to do. Castiel watched with wide eyes as she drove the demon-killing blade into the chest of an approaching demon, before shoving it away and swiftly stepping over its body as if nothing had happened. A strange lightening crackled in the demon's chest, and its eyes bulged, as all spark of life left it.

Distracted, Castiel forgot his role in flanking Meg, preventing demons from getting to her.

"CAS!" Yelled Sam, dispatching an approaching demon with a kick to its abdomen, sending it tumbling over the edge of the ship as they made their way to a staircase up to the helm. Cas jumped, realising suddenly that there was a blade heading right for his face.

He ducked just in time; the blade's owner overbalanced slightly, allowing Castiel to swipe at him with a look of determination – that was the last lapse in concentration he was going to have. Even as he sliced at the stomach of the man in front of him – _feeling no guilt, for killing a demon was certainly the Lord's work_ – he thought to himself that Sam had just been looking out for him.

His mind was cast back to the day he had gone overboard: throughout their fighting, Sam had held his own, especially considering that the whole time, he was distracted by watching out for his brother. He'd watched over his brother, then, as he was watching out for Castiel, now.

The splash of blood on the deck, and onto Castiel's shoes, brought him back to the present with a grim reminder of the brutality of the situation he was in: the man in front of him fell to his knees. He appeared to be holding his guts in his hands, doubled over in pain. Castiel frowned and moved on, thinking about how – if Sam had been a more violent, less compassionate man – he could have gutted Castiel similarly. But Sam wouldn't have done so – and besides, he was too busy looking out for his brother to get a fatal blow in. Castiel's wounded arm was a reminder of that.

He caught up to Sam and Meg, who were approaching Alastair quickly. He was accompanied by two demons, who were already running at the two humans; Meg was busy accosting Alastair, her sword drawn in one hand, and the demon-killing knife in the other.

The pace of the fighting up here was much quicker: down on the deck, Brady was using blunt instruments to cave skulls in; Meg's stronger demons were bodily throwing Alastair's supporters into the water, to drown with no one to help pull them out. But Alastair's best fighters were stationed at the helm.

Even Sam had trouble keeping up with the pace of the demon he was fighting: he recognised her as the one who had brought them aboard. Her dark eyes flashed red, and her smile widened, as she easily deflected his attacks. Sam couldn't help but check up on Cas, even as he himself fought: it was all for nothing, if his companion died. He could say goodbye to his chances of getting Dean back; of sneaking into St. Mary's undetected.

He wouldn't be able to sleep easy, if he knew he'd gotten Castiel – Castiel who'd spared his life, who was learning to trust him, who'd kissed him in a moment of anger and frustration and _need_ – killed.

He got distracted. And he got hurt.

He cried out, as the demon nicked his side, cutting his waist deep enough that it pulled when he moved.  
"SAM!" Castiel yelled. Sam turned to look at him again, and saw that Alastair's goon had him pinned to the rail at the edge of the helm, his weapon discarded, and was trying to wrestle him over it: if he went overboard, there might not be time to pull him out; he might not even be able to _swim_, given the extra damage to his arm inflicted by Alastair yesterday.

But the concern in the officer's eyes wasn't for himself: it was for Sam, his eyes wide and full of anguish as he saw the blood blossoming from Sam's torso, spreading across it like ink through the pages of a priceless book. _What if it was irreparable?_

Sam reacted in a second. Drawing the pistol Meg had liberated for him along with his sword – which caused the demon he was fighting to recoil – he threw it to Cas, who had no choice but to catch it with his bad arm, wincing at the movement, but fighting on to quickly fire it into the skull of the man pinning him.

Sam didn't see the moment he fired due to his concentration on duelling the red-eyed demon, but he certainly saw the splatter of blood cover the deck of the helm, and heard the noise as Castiel shoved him overboard. In his peripheral vision, he saw the naval officer, covered in liberal amounts of blood, stumbling over to him, and picking up his sword to try and help him.

She was quick. It was an unavoidable fact – but, fortunately for them, no amount of speed could defend her from two experienced swordsmen (injured though they were). She fended them off for a few minutes, her feet a blur of motion as she displayed some of the most complex footwork they had ever witnessed; however, when Castiel managed a swipe to her neck, causing her to cry out in anger and pain, and press her free hand to the gushing would, it gave Sam the opportunity to slam into her, pushing her small body all the way overboard. He looked down, seeing her disappear beneath the surface in a mess of black material and ruby-red blood.

He turned back to the action quickly, and saw Alastair staring at the two of them, staring silently with wide eyes. They held their swords aloft in synchrony, ready to take him on.

However, it was not necessary: the same strange crackling light Castiel had witnessed before illuminated the demon from the inside, and he slumped forward. His skull had been cracked, and brain matter leaked from what was clearly a grotesque knife wound.

"He was a good torturer," Meg said, drawing their eyes – she'd been standing behind Alastair, and was splattered in blood from his head. She wiped the demon-killing knife on her coat, before sheathing it; she grinned, despite the blood running down her face. ". . . But he was a lousy fighter,"

Turning away from the two disgusted, injured humans, she turned to the rest of the ship: her men had mostly won the fight, with just a few stragglers left to kill or throw overboard.  
"It's over!" She yelled at them, "I'm your captain, now,"

The remark was met by cheers from the crew, who genuinely did seem happier with her in charge than with Alastair; there was no undercurrent of fear in their laughter or triumphant shouts.

Sam cringed when he noticed that Brady had made his way to the helm, and was fast approaching. "Deal's a deal," He told Meg eagerly, "I get to be First Mate,"  
"Yeah, whatever," She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

He smiled, turning to Sam and Castiel with a look of sinister glee:  
"Welcome to the crew of the Hellfire, boys," He told them, with a quirk of his eyebrow.  
"What?" Castiel asked, frowning and looking from Brady to Sam, and back again.  
"Wait, no-" Sam refused, turning to look at the new captain in confusion.

Meg sighed.

"No, Brady. We're not just gonna keep them," She told him.  
"But-!" Brady protested.  
"Deal's a deal," She reminded him. "And I made a deal to help them once I got to be captain. I can't have people saying I break my promises, now, can I?" She asked, with a quirk of her eyebrow to accompany her no-nonsense look.

Brady opened his mouth to disagree again, but shut it, stalking off to sulk somewhere. Meg rolled her eyes, and addressed her crew:  
"We're making port, gentlemen! . . . Set sail for Covenant," She ordered. There was a flurry of movement below them as she yelled a few more orders. Sam and Castiel watched as they obeyed her command, happy to be heading for dry land again.

Castiel felt a little guilty for helping these pirates to access a port where they would certainly cause all manner of trouble and commit many a heinous crime, but . . . He'd done what he had to, to survive. Looking at Sam, he decided it was worth it.

"And you two . . . You're bleeding on my ship. Go sew up your squishy bits, or whatever you humans do. There's supplies in the cabin," She ordered them, trying her best not to seem as if she were doing something nice.

Sam opened his mouth to reply that they were fine, but was suddenly acutely aware not only of Cas holding his arm stiffly at his side, tucked into his pocket but still shaking with the effort of keeping it protected and immobilised, but of his own bleeding wound in his side that needed stitching. He shut his mouth and nodded once, tapping Castiel's good arm to get him to follow him.

As they walked, Castiel handed Sam back his pistol, which he'd clung on to:  
"Thank you," He told Sam, who simply nodded. "Though I would prefer you kept an eye on your own opponent, rather than on me,"  
_I know which one I'd rather look at, _Sam thought to himself, replying: "Maybe if you'd quit being such a damsel in distress the whole time . . ."  
"I am _not_ a damsel," Castiel replied, adamant.  
"Whatever, Cas," Sam smiled genuinely, despite being in pain and bleeding, for the first time aboard the nightmarish ship.

Yet again, Castiel found himself smiling back, too.


	6. Chapter 6

**_AN: _**_important! If you went to read last chapter and found it was the same as chapter 3, go back!__ I've put the right chapter in there now - it was just an error on my part, which a kind soul pointed out to me! Chapter 5 is now up as I'd intended. _

_Anyway. Sorry if updates for this become a little less frequent - I've just had a bunch of uni assignments given to me. Urgh. _

_This part includes some mostly non-explicit sex, just a warning! Hope you enjoy this chapter :))_

* * *

Castiel watched nervously as Sam sewed himself some of the neatest stitches he'd ever seen – that was without even taking into account that he was applying them to himself. He didn't even seem to react to the pain of the needle digging into his flesh: he just stared with gritted teeth at the wound in his left side as he worked, having sterilised it with alcohol earlier. Occasionally, he would wipe away a little blood with an alcohol-soaked rag, before carrying on with his painstaking task.

Castiel had offered his hands for the job, but Sam had eyed his left arm sceptically before declining. In his words, _it won't be the first time I've stitched myself up. Won't be the last, either._

_At least it was below his ribs_, Castiel reasoned. _Didn't disrupt his tattoos_. While there were a few smaller symbols scattered around the younger Winchester's torso – which had fortunately been spared – in particular it would have been a shame to disrupt the ones on his ribs: they seemed a complete set. If they were for protection, like the pirate had told him, they would surely cease to work anymore if sliced into.

Finally, Sam tied off the last stitch, and silently gestured for the alcohol, which was slightly out of his reach – Castiel handed it to him without protest, his eyes lingering on Sam's blood all over his own hands, his shirt, and the floor. The pirate poured the liquid onto the wound, and winced with an audible intake of breath, slamming his eyes shut. He continued to make sounds like bitten-off whimpers for a moment, tipping his head back and gritting his teeth.

"Are you . . ." Castiel asked, but trailed off when Sam nodded furiously. He remained quiet after that, giving the younger Winchester a minute or two to let his breathing even out; let the pain subside, and fade from his still-bruised face.

Eventually, Sam opened his eyes, and immediately reached for the bandages they'd found in the cabin's supplies. The medical supplies had never been touched, it seemed: there was very little compassion aboard this particular ship; most demons didn't require medical treatment, anyway. It seemed a little . . . Redundant. But they were certainly making good use of it today.

Wrapping the bandages around his torso to ensure the stitched-up wound was covered and not going to get dirty or infected, Sam sighed with relief. Then, he turned to Cas.

Originally, he'd wanted to dress Castiel's wound first – but the officer had told him very clearly that he didn't want Sam touching him while he was still bleeding everywhere; when his attention was divided between his own wound, and Castiel's.

"Come here," Sam requested softly, and Castiel shifted forwards slightly, laying his arm down on the table. Sam inspected the wound, and was grateful to find that there was very little dirt in it; it wasn't yellow, or showing any signs of infection. He thought to himself darkly that Alastair must sterilise his implements of torture: he couldn't have his victims dying prematurely of septicaemia, now, could he?

All the same, Sam took up the alcohol again: "Breathe," He instructed the officer calmly. Castiel nodded once, and Sam poured the liquid onto the wound, being sure to thoroughly clean it. Castiel hissed, but otherwise didn't react much.  
"You have a high pain threshold," Sam commented quietly, working to thread another needle for Cas' stitches.  
"Indeed," Castiel replied, offering no further comment.  
"Luckily he caught the fleshy part of the superior half of your arm – didn't affect any major arteries, veins, nerves . . ." Sam murmured, mainly to himself. Castiel caught his eye, his eyebrows raised.  
"What?" Sam replied, "I've gotta know this stuff . . . And I read. I used to read a lot, when I lived on dry land," He added, as if it were nothing to talk about the only period of law-abiding normality in his life.  
"Not so much anymore?" Castiel replied.  
"No time. Can't pick books up so easily, either," He commented, positioning himself to make the first stitch. "Ready?"

Castiel nodded once, and kept talking, as Sam set to work:  
"I wasn't sure you'd be able to read . . ." He admitted. Sam snorted softly.  
"My dad insisted I know . . . Mom taught Dean, Dean taught me," He summarised.  
"And do you write?" Castiel inquired.

Sam frowned, tying off the first stitch already. "It's . . . Harder," He replied. Castiel nodded, feeling oddly detached from the pain in his arm, while he had Sam to distract him.  
". . . Sam," He asked in a low voice, after a long pause.  
"Mm," The pirate replied, his fingers working much more quickly and precisely on the officer than they they had on himself. Castiel supposed he didn't want to waste any time closing the wound up, after a few hours to the open air, and all the healing it had done before Alastair had made it worse.

"They call you the boy with the demon blood,"

Sam huffed out a sigh, and said nothing, continuing with his work. He tied off the second stitch.

". . . Why do they call you that?" He ventured, his worries about Sam's earlier fury resurfacing; he became acutely aware that Sam was in a position to hurt him. Wasn't it true that demons revelled in the pain of others?  
"Even they don't know," Sam replied mildly. "It's a long story . . . But the truth is-" He paused at the trickiest part of the third stitch, before continuing, "A demon killed my mother, when I was six months old. We used to live in St. Mary's. My dad was actually in the navy, once . . ."

He tied off the third stitch, and considered how many more the wound would need: two more, maybe three. He steadfastly refused to make eye-contact with Castiel during the story, though the officer sought it like a dying man seeks water. He just wanted to understand.

". . . It came, and fed me its blood. It changed me forever. They – the psychics, the demons, anyone who practises hoodoo – they say I was cursed, before I was even born, but it's not true," He poured a little more alcohol onto the wound, stilling for a moment, allowing Castiel to get over the burn of it before resuming his task. "Just since I was six months old. It took away any chance I had at being _normal_, killed my mother, and left . . . My dad vowed to kill it. Went rogue, commandeered a ship – became a pirate and, well . . . The rest is history,"

He tied off the fourth stitch, as Castiel frowned, and asked:  
"Your father was in the navy?"  
"Yeah – bet they never told you that," Sam smiled to himself, even as he continued to work, preparing the needle for the fifth stitch.  
"No . . . They did not," Castiel muttered.  
"It's how he knew how to read, and write – how he had all the skills he needed to be one of the best pirates captains the world has ever seen,"

Castiel detected a note of bitterness in his voice: he wondered what the relationship between the younger Winchester and his father had been like. Dean was captain of the Impala now, and Sam only first mate . . . Perhaps he had not trusted Sam with the ship, because of what had happened to him as an infant.

"If it's any consolation . . ." Castiel told him, "You and your brother cause more trouble for the navy than John Winchester ever did,"

Sam snorted, looking up at Castiel for the first time. His eyes shone in the candlelight, his bitter remembrance forgotten for a moment with the officer's attempt at making him smile.  
"Thanks," He replied with mock-sincerity. He continued, "Anyway, what do you care? . . . I'm a pirate, whichever way you slice it – doesn't matter if I've also got demon blood in me. It's just semantics to you, right?" He reasoned.

Castiel frowned, regarding Sam as he completed the fifth stitch, and started on the sixth – it would be the final stitch, by both their estimations.

"But . . ." He watched at length, as Sam performed intricate movements with his fingers, pulling the skin together and tying it off, ". . . Are you human?"

Sam noticeably flinched, and stopped moving, still looking at the wound. Luckily, he had finished with the final stitch, or he might have accidentally harmed Castiel. He took a deep breath and looked up, into Castiel's cautious eyes.  
"What do you mean?" He asked in a toneless voice.  
". . . Are you like them, or like me?" He clarified.

Sam sighed, and laid down he needle and excess thread.

"You sound just like my dad," He replied, rubbing his eyes with exhaustion. It had been a tough couple of days – he wasn't sure he was ready for this conversation right now, but it seemed Cas was determined to have it.  
"He did not know?"  
"He was convinced I was gonna end up like them," Sam told him, nodding towards the doorway to the deck of the ship, while taking up the alcohol. Castiel braced himself, before Sam sterilised the wound, as he continued to speak: "When he found out about the blood, he thought I might end up here, on this ship, torturing souls and-" He cut himself off there. He set the bottle down, and took up a bandage.

"He even went as far as telling Dean to kill me, if I went evil," He continued, his voice almost conversational as he wrapped Cas' arm - the officer could tell that he cared a lot more than he was letting on; he was trying to disguise his pain at that particular memory.  
"Your own father?" The officer asked incredulously. Sam just nodded. ". . . But you did not," Castiel surmised. Sam shook his head.

". . . Though you have their blood, you are not like them. I . . . Can see that. And you are clearly not in possession of their resistance to physical wounds . . ." Castiel mused aloud.  
"No special powers. Well – the occasional prophetic dream," He admitted. "I used to be able to do more, but . . . That was a road I should never have taken," His voice was soft and confessional, as he tied up the bandage: "A choice I never should have made . . ."

He sat back slightly, taking his hands away from Cas' arm; the officer inspected his work, and nodded in satisfaction. Gently, Sam took his wrists – he was a little taken aback, though he didn't fight it, as Sam stared into his eyes with a sincerity that made him almost want to look away:  
"But I'm human, Cas," Sam told him, and it sounded almost like a plea. "And besides – even if I _was_ like them . . ." He thought for a minute, his eyes drifting to the floor, though he didn't let go of Cas' wrists – almost as if he had forgotten he was still holding them.

". . . Pirate, naval officer, _demon-blood freak_ . . . It doesn't matter what you are. It only matters what you do," He resolved, looking back into Castiel's eyes.

The intensity of his gaze made Castiel's heart break – in them, he saw reflected years of prejudice and hatred, from both Sam himself and others. He saw how Sam thought there was something wrong with him: something he could never change, or be rid of – be _clean _of.

Yes, Sam was a pirate. But Castiel understood, now – he was fighting against what had been done to him when he was six months old. He was following his father's orders, and his brother's. He was out there, hunting demons, despite him being tainted with their blood. It was a contradiction, yes – but so was Sam being a man of faith, while being a pirate, and having demon blood in him. Sam just made it work – he made the impossible possible.

It was strange how learning that Sam was, in his own words, a 'freak', had lead Castiel to think of him less as an abomination – a pirate, a criminal, an asset to be used – and more as a _human_.

He slid his hands through Sam's soft hold on his wrists, until they were simply holding hands. He gently pulled Sam forward, overcome with the urge at that point to let Sam know that he'd had a change of heart.

Sam wasn't simply a tool he could exploit and discard, anymore. Sam was a human being. Sam was a friend . . . Perhaps he was something more.

Looking over Sam's shoulder, he spotted a bed obviously intended for the unwell or injured – yet again, disused and strangely spotless. He stood up, bringing Sam with him. The pirate frowned, wondering what was going on – he soon figured it out, when Castiel pressed a soft kiss to his open mouth.

Rather than being sloppy and drunken, or aggressive and punishing, this kiss was . . . Soft. It had a quality to it that Sam couldn't place, for a moment. It was as if Cas was thinking of him first, rather than just using him – trying to comfort him?

But then he realised, as Cas pushed him gently backwards, that he was wrong – what he felt in Cas' embrace, as he was walked slowly backwards until the bed behind him hit the back of his knees, was _forgiveness_. He was knocked into a sitting position on the edge of the bed – Cas kept moving, climbing on top of him, without breaking the kiss. Lying down, he shifted so he was lying on the full length of the bed, Castiel not breaking from him at any point. They continued, bodies pressed up against one another for a few minutes as the kiss deepened.

Sam sighed harshly, as he felt Cas' hands ghost over his chest – not bruising or punishing like the harsh scratches he'd placed on Cas the night before, but feather-light and caring. He shivered, as he felt those hands undo several of the buttons on his shirt, exposing his anti-possession tattoo.

Cas leant down, pressing a kiss to the tattoo; Sam felt him lick at it, nibbling at the flesh.

"R-really do like my tattoos, don't you?" He murmured, his voice low and quiet – though it sounded incredibly loud in the silent room, with only the noises of the sea, creaking wood, and his own panting breaths to compete with.

Castiel hummed against his skin in reply. He loved the way Sam shook – he hadn't found himself attracted to anyone before, in the way that he was attracted to Sam Winchester. There were about a million reasons why he shouldn't be doing this – the fact his was a wanted pirate was only the tip of the iceberg – but no one would ever know . . . And besides, the feelings he had for Sam at that moment were too good _not _to share with him.

Remembering the reaction he'd had last time, Castiel moved his attention to the side of Sam's neck: amongst the continuously rippling tendons there, he found a mole that stuck out from Sam's tan flesh. He pressed a gentle kiss to it, letting his hands wonder down the Sam's body.

He enjoyed lying on top of Sam very much: he knew he could support his weight, even injured, and it felt rewarding to know that the sharp intakes of breath and the stuttering sighs he could feel Sam's chest experiencing beneath him were because of _him_. He avoided Sam's wound when he trailed his hands down his body, instead opting to pay particular attention to the boy's ribs: his fingers traced them, tickling and teasing, until Sam was arching upwards, biting his lip.

Though he found the pirate's upper body fascinating, with its scars and muscles and _tattoos_, he had a more pressing concern to deal with.

Sam jumped, as he felt Castiel's hand brush against his crotch.  
"C-Cas?" He asked, a little breathless. Having Castiel lying on top of him wasn't helping with that – nor was the fact that his body felt on fire with all the attention it was getting. He hadn't realised how much he'd neglected this physical need, until Castiel had climbed on top of him and provided him with _just_ what he wanted.

Castiel stilled, and looked up at Sam's face questioningly. There was no sound other than panting breaths from the two men for a moment, as they made eye contact.  
"Do you want to . . .?" Castiel asked, echoing Sam's slurred, drunken question several days hence. Sam was glad they hadn't done this then – if they had, he might not have remembered how Castiel paid attention to detail: how he noted every single time Sam's breath hitched, or how his body shifted when Cas touched _that spot just there_-

"Mm," Sam confirmed with a frantic nod. ". . . Don't' stop,"

* * *

Sam thought he'd been discrete, as he made to leave the cabin. However, when he was met with hollers, jeering and clapping as he stepped out into the sunshine, arm flung across his face as a defence from the sun, he realised that he'd made an error in his judgement.

For a moment he wondered why they were greeting him so noisily. Then, he realised, as he saw a couple of crew members walking past him making lewd gestures.

_Oh, God_.

He should have realised it would be obvious what he and Cas had been doing – after all, it was now morning, and they'd disappeared from the deck in the late afternoon yesterday. Granted, they'd been tending to their injuries and sleeping their exhaustion off after those injuries, but . . . Yeah. He should have known.

Sticking his middle finger up to the passing demons, he made his way to the helm, and tried to ignore the rest of the crew. He could see Meg, captain's hat on her head, surveying the sea, as she manned the helm. But, as soon as she caught a glimpse of him, a slow smile broke across her face. He wasn't looking forward to this conversation, in the least.

"Morning, sunshine," She greeted him sweetly as he approached, though she raised an eyebrow that said _I know you fucked that naval officer last night_.  
"Morning," He replied shortly, stopping just next to her.  
"That's morning _captain_. I don't care _who _you're fucking, you still gotta call me captain, Sammy," She informed him. He made a noise of disgust. "So," She continued, "You make that officer your bitch?"

"What?! No!" Sam denied, with a sinking feeling as he felt his face grow hot.  
"Oh, so you're his bitch? . . . Shoulda known. Pretty boy like you – _definitely_ a bottom,"  
"God, just – shut the fuck up! It's none of your business!" He told her indignantly.  
Meg snorted. "I gave you a cabin in _my ship_. Yeah, it's my business," She replied, with a sinister expression of glee.

He didn't like the scrutiny he was under – it was like they could all see what he was thinking; could see how he and Cas had grinded against each other, building up their slow tempo until they were both desperate; until he was sweaty and whimpering under Cas, who obliged in wrapping his hand around their cocks, stroking _painfully_ slowly until-

"Are ya with me, Sammy?"

Flustered and acutely aware of how he was blushing again, Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah - captain," He added. Meg nodded slowly, with an expression that told him she knew _exactly _what he'd been thinking.  
"I said, what did you come to bother me about after a long night of fraternising with the enemy?"  
"Uh – yeah. Just came to ask how we're doing,"  
"You're in luck," She told him, gazing out at the sea, and pulling a compass from her coat pocket; she consulted it, nodded and then placed it back in her pocket. "The wind's behind us. Covenant is North of here – we're making good speed. We'll be there by tonight," She informed him. He found himself impressed at how Meg discarded her usual shtick of sarcasm and mockery as soon as she assumed her role as the captain; she put her duty to her crew – her _cause _– first. For a demon, that loyalty sure was rare.

"What?" She snapped, as she caught him staring.  
"Nothing . . . You make an okay captain, I guess," He told her nonchalantly. She rolled her eyes.  
"What's your deal? Looking for a third already?" She mocked, and his nose wrinkled in disgust.  
"No thanks," He replied in revulsion.  
"Then fuck off. I've got things to do – and you stink of sex, go get yourself cleaned up. Don't want people thinking my crew are promiscuous and smell bad,"  
"Oh, but thinking they're _evil _is okay?" Sam inquired, as he walked away.  
"The whole truth, and nothing but!" She called after him.

He shook his head, smirking as he walked back to the cabin. He wondered hopefully if this crew had ever heard of soap, let alone had any on board.

* * *

Later that day, after cleaning himself up and washing up the dried blood from around the wound in his side, Sam emerged from the cabin, maps in hand. He was hoping to estimate exactly where they were – Meg had said they'd be at Covenant by evening-time, but he could never know if she was being truthful. He'd gotten his compass and telescope back, along with the rest of his possessions, and was going to look for any landmarks he recognised. Having been to Covenant a few times, he knew what to look out for – however, their angle of approach was probably a little different this time around to the usual one he and Dean took in the Impala.

He'd offered to help with the daily workings of the ship, but Meg and her crew had just laughed derisively at him, and refused. They didn't need a Winchester's _help_ with anything. If he was honest, Sam was surprised – deal or no – that he was still alive, and aboard the ship . . . Especially with the way Brady had looked at him when he'd seen him last. There had been a murderous glint in his eyes, for sure. But Sam gave as good as he got, snatching up the first mate's maps, and taking them elsewhere.

He spied Castiel off to the starboard side of the ship, leaning on the railing and staring over the edge. Sam sized him up for a moment: when he'd returned to the cabin, Cas had been gone. There'd been evidence of him getting cleaned up, and re-bandaging his arm, but other than that, nothing . . . Perhaps he was regretting what had happened the night before.

He hesitated a moment in joining the pensive officer, whose eyes were lazily tracking the waves they traversed. Their colour reflected the cerulean of the sea – so much lighter than they'd been in the dim cabin last night, sultry and seductive. Sam cleared his throat, as he approached.

"Hello Sam," Castiel greeted him cordially, drawing his eyes from the sea at last.  
"Hi," Sam replied, trying not to think about the comfortable tangle of limbs he'd woken up in – and how they belonged to someone who'd previously wanted him dead.  
"I am glad you joined me. I need to-"  
"Listen, Cas-" Sam cut in, scratching the back of his head and interrupting before he could receive Castiel's 'about last night' speech. "I get it, you think it was a mistake, whatever – it's fine,"  
". . . That is not what I think," Castiel replied, frowning at Sam and looking him up and down. "Is that what you think?"  
"No!" Sam denied.  
"Good," Castiel replied.  
"Fine," Sam agreed, too quickly.

They stood in silence for a moment, avoiding eye contact. Finally, Castiel – after a moment or two of trying – managed to catch Sam's eye.

"I need to give you this," Castiel told him, fishing something from his pocket. Sam raised an eyebrow, and watched as the officer produced an apple from his pocket, and handed it to him.  
"Uh . . . Thanks, Cas,"  
"You are welcome," The officer said, turning back to the sea, and leaning his elbows on the railing once more. Sam's stomach rumbled – he was suddenly extremely aware that he hadn't eaten in around a day or so. Retrieving a penknife from his satchel – he'd taken to carrying it around with him, not wanting any more of these people, these _demons_, to get their hands on his stuff – he proceeded to cut the fruit into pieces, slicing off parts before eating them.

"Want some?" He asked, between savouring mouthfuls of the sweet, red fruit.  
"No thank you," Was Cas' reply.  
"Where'd you get this?" Sam asked curiously. Demons didn't usually eat – unless alcohol counted – so there was no real reason to keep food on the ship.  
"Below deck," He answered, linking his fingers together absent-mindedly, "They had looted them a few days ago from a merchant ship, apparently. However, that was the last ripe one I could find,"  
"So you haven't had any?"

Castiel shook his head.

"C'mon," Sam insisted, pulling Cas' hands apart, and thrusting half of the fruit into one of them.  
"I'm not-"  
"Don't try and say you're not hungry. Dean used to say that, when there wasn't enough food. He used to give me the last of it, and go without, himself," Sam told him. Castiel looked back to him, and saw the pain of the memory shining in his eyes, though it was obscured by layers of concern and frustration.  
"It made me feel like crap, when he did that," Sam continued, "Worse than if we'd just shared the food. So don't lie,"

Castiel looked down at the food in his hand, and tentatively took a bite. He shut his eyes as he chewed, enjoying the taste of the fruit, and trying to prolong each bite. Sam watched as he did so, smiling as he watched the officer enjoy the food he'd salvaged for him: the small noises of pleasure that accompanied his eating . . . Were a different matter. Sam shifted on his feet, before deciding to stare out at the sea, maps still in hand, as Cas was doing.

"Why'd you save me the last of the food, anyway?" He asked.  
"I . . . Didn't want you to go without," The naval officer responded shortly.  
". . . Cas," Sam said warily, "Last night . . ."  
"I believe we just had this conversation," Castiel interrupted, but Sam pressed on:  
"Did it change something? . . . Would you have saved the food for me before that?" Sam asked cautiously.  
"Of course," Cas stated simply.  
"What?" Sam asked, not quite following.  
"Of course I would have. You're my only hope of getting to St. Mary's port – I do not believe the people of Covenant – a notorious pirate port – would take kindly to my being there, at least with no chaperone to vouch for me,"  
". . . Oh," Sam replied, looking out to the horizon. Late afternoon was slipping into early evening, now.  
"Aside from that, though," Castiel added, "I believe I am beginning to feel some genuine affection for you, which I had previously not though possible,"

Sam jerked his head in surprise to look at Castiel, who didn't look back at him, instead continuing to stare at the horizon – as if he were avoiding eye contact, deliberately.  
"You showed me last night that before all else, you are a human. And a good one, too,"  
"Your fellow officers-" Sam pointed out.  
"-they would not approve. But they are also not here. And they have not seen you in the way I have,"  
"What, you mean they haven't had sex with me?" Sam asked dryly.  
"I was thinking more that they hadn't seen your conviction in helping the ones you care about," Castiel replied, as if Sam hadn't told a joke, "They haven't seen you pray silently before you sleep, or confront the life-long unfair prejudices people have against you . . . They have not seen the real Sam Winchester,"  
"But I'm still a pirate," Sam reminded him.  
"And they are naval officers - you were right, I fear . . . They, too, commit crimes," Cas admitted. "Let those without sin cast the first stone,"

Sam had no words upon hearing that. Cas . . . Actually had feelings for him? Would _defend _him? He thought back to Cas' eyes last night: maybe that dark glint in them hadn't been lust, but . . . Something deeper. More positive, too. But potentially more damaging.

He thought about how Cas had seemed to worship his body, right after he'd spoken about how everyone – even members of his own family – had treated him differently, because of what had happened to him as a baby. It was almost as if he were trying to tell him, to _show _him that he didn't care . . . Especially in light of him saving Cas' life.

Silently, Sam reached out, and took one of Castiel's hands in his own, as they stared out at the sun dipping lower; closer and closer to the horizon. It would set soon: in a matter of hours, they would be away from the Hellfire for good.

They'd make it back to dry land, soon. And they'd make it there together.


	7. Chapter 7

_**AN: **__sorry this is a little later than usual! Lots of deadlines to contend with. For graphics based on this fic by tumblr user samsfire and sastiel drabbles/prompt-fills, go to my tumblr - itshellfiredean. Enjoy :))_

* * *

Sam was cradling his father's journal in his hands, thoughtfully reading over what he'd written about demons, when Meg poked her head into the cabin:  
"Get your shit together. We'll be there in ten," She barked at them, before slamming the door.

Castiel, who had been dozing quietly on the bed, sat up, a smile spreading across his face. Sam smiled back, carefully closing the journal, stowing it in his bag, and standing up from his position at the table. Doing a quick sweep around – snatching up a few bandages for changing their dressings later on – he made sure he left nothing behind, as he exited the cabin with Cas trailing behind him.

When they got out on deck, Meg appeared to be arguing with Brady. Their confrontation was slowly drawing a crowd, but the two humans made their way past demons and damned souls alike to stand by Meg's side, and listen to what was going on.

"I say we don't make port. I say we drop these pathetic specimens in the sea, let them swim to Covenant," Brady was saying. That got a few laughs from the growing crowd.  
"And _I _say, as your _captain_, that we need to make port – we need ingredients for spells, for one thing. Besides – don't you miss our good-old-fashioned looting and murdering sprees?" She pointed out. Sam was disheartened to hear no one agree with her – not because he was supportive of her, but because he'd rather not have people agreeing with Brady's plan to dump them in the sea. He'd had enough of that for one week.

_Better the devil you know,_ he thought, glancing quickly at Castiel, who looked equally as troubled as he felt.

"What, like when we were under yellow-eyes?" Brady asked, taking a step closer to Meg, who stood her ground. "We've got ingredients for spells, Meg. Just not the spells you like – tracking spells. We'll find other ships. We'll butcher their crew – take in the ones who survive. That's what I call old-fashioned – burning it all _down_," He enthused, and – much to Sam and Cas' displeasure – was greeted with cheering and applause. "This is the _Hellfire_, after all!"

Meg snarled, "Everyone shut the fuck up, before I-"  
"Before you what? I don't think you'll kill your own crew . . . I don't think you've got the stomach to murder innocents anymore, either, Masters. You'd rather steal someone's purse like a petty thief than rip their guts out. I think somewhere along the line, you went _soft_," Brady mocked.  
"My foot in your ass definitely won't be soft, if you don't stand down right away," She threatened.  
"I don't think I will . . . Anyone who wants to make port?" He cried, looking to the gathered crew.

Silence. A couple of hands tentatively went up; they quickly descended again, as Brady surveyed the crowds of crewmen.  
"All those in favour of kicking this Winchester-loving cowardly bitch out on her ass?" He yelled, smirking. There was a roar of agreement. Sam and Castiel's hearts sank, and they glanced at one another again. _Not good_.

Brady turned back to Meg and the two humans. "It's settled. I think there's been another mutiny, _captain_,"

Meg gulped, looking around – but there was no-one to support her, aside from Sam and Castiel. She hated them for doing this to her – but, deep down inside, she knew it was her own fault. She just _hadn't _been bloodthirsty enough for the job, regardless of how good a captain she was.

And now she was getting booted off the Hellfire, with a Winchester and a naval officer as her only remaining two allies.

Fucking perfect.

* * *

"I still say we're lucky they gave us a row-boat," Castiel pointed out, as they approached the docks in their tiny wooden vessel. Meg didn't say anything, staring out at the sea as her ship sailed away into obscurity, even the torches aboard fading to nothingness in the dark night-time mist.

Sam shook his head at Cas, indicating Meg – who was wedged in next to him, sitting facing backwards. It was clear she was very upset about what had happened: she's barely made five mean or sarcastic comments in the whole ten minutes they'd been sailing. Sam wondered if there was any truth to what Brady had been saying: sure, Meg was still definitely a demon, who could only be killed by the demon-killing knife, and took pleasure in the misfortune of others, but . . . She was changed, from what he'd last seen of her. He supposed he'd have to wonder forever why that was – she wasn't exactly going to volunteer the information on her own.

Especially with how quiet she was being.

"Next problem is finding a vessel . . . And a new crew. We've got to act fast," Sam thought aloud.  
"Indeed – they'll want to try Dean quickly, if they do so at all. That gives us two or three days maximum, by my reckoning," Castiel agreed.  
"The journey to St. Mary's is around a day or two from here, with favourable conditions," Sam supplied.  
"Can't you two have your working-shit-out montage later, when I'm not here?" Meg complained, finally looking away from the spot where her ship had been, to give them both a withering look. They both shut their mouths, not wanting to get on her very-_very_-bad side.

"Why _were_ you so eager to make port?" Castiel asked with a frown, as they pulled up alongside a deserted pier.  
"Well for one thing, I wanted to dump you two off, and lose you _permanently_," She snapped defensively, standing up and jumping out of the boat. Sam followed, trying not to rock it too much and send Castiel plummeting into the water – though he smiled slightly to himself at the mental image.

Cas squinted at his smiling face suspiciously.  
"Something funny, boy?" He inquired, not completely seriously.  
"Just thinking about how funny it would be if you fell in the water right now," Sam replied truthfully, grinning at Cas.  
"I believe you've seen enough of me getting wet for one twenty-four hour period," Castiel replied quietly, before walking past Sam, who just stood gaping for a moment, before catching up with Cas and Meg. Castiel didn't usually say anything that risqué, but when he did . . . _Damn_.

Sam's amusement was quickly dampened, as they walked the length of the long dock, walking past many a ship – all of different qualities and sizes; all with different reputations. It was clear that some of them belonged to pirates – it was a pirate port, after all – while the others belonged to merchants, making a stop off to do some illicit trading, or pick up a crew with loose morals.

As he walked along silently beside Cas and Meg, who were bickering amongst themselves about something or other, he was overwhelmed with a sense of homesickness.

The Impala was the only home he'd ever known. A long, long while ago, he'd believed his place on land with Jess had been a home . . . Retrospectively, he'd erased that notion from his head. The trauma of what had happened there had completely wiped out any notion of comfort or happiness that had remained there for him.

He kept wishing he'd see the Impala between two smaller merchant vessels; he'd see her shining black wood, and silvery-grey sails, and name engraved into the side in grey, curling cursive letters. Would that these old, rotting planks he was traversing were the deck of the Impala; that the crew he was about to muster up were his own crew; that the bed he would sleep in tonight were his hammock, next to the wooden wall of planks he'd nestled against since he could remember.

Suddenly, he stopped. He blinked once, twice, three times . . . No _way_.

Because he wasn't wishing, or imagining anymore: the Impala was there. She was tied up at the dock, looming and familiar in the light of the misty moon. It even had a torch lit on its bow, as if welcoming him home . . . It wasn't properly home without Dean, of course – but it was a very, _very _good start.

And Dean would be ecstatic to get it back, when they recused him.

". . . Sam?" Castiel was asking. Sam realised he'd grabbed Cas' arm tightly and had frozen, looking up at the ship. He was reluctant to look away, lest it disappear suddenly, and turn out to be merely wishful thinking on his part.  
". . . She's here," Sam whispered, looking up at the vessel.

Cas followed his gaze, his own eyes widening slightly as he noted the name of the ship.  
"And I thought Dean was the one who was overly-attached to that piece of crap," Meg commented sarcastically. The two humans ignored her, approaching the ship. Sam made a bee-line for the gangway, while Castiel followed more cautiously, looking around for anyone who might be watching them.

Meg huffed out yet another sigh, and told them, "Fuck this. I'm going for a drink. Don't follow me," She excused herself, clearly at the end of her tether – this display of affection for a ship was clearly the final straw, for her.

Castiel wondered to himself if it had simply been too much for her that Sam had found his ship, while hers was sailing away without her. _Perhaps she is jealous_, he thought, as he followed Sam up to the deck of the vessel.

He watched as the younger Winchester smoothed his hand over one of the rails, walking the length of the ship, looking around in awe. He decided not to comment, as he noticed tears welling in Sam's eyes; as he watched him bite his lip, the bittersweet reunion getting the better of him. Cas watched; he observed, and understood – _it was great, but it wasn't right to be there without Dean _– but he didn't press the subject.

"This is what it was like when Dean was on the Hellfire," Sam murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he spoke. He was fighting not to appear too emotional, but it was mainly futile. He took a calming breath, and gathered his thoughts. "Didn't matter that I had a whole crew. Bobby, Rufus . . . She felt empty, without him," He admitted, stopping by one particular point in the railing.

He noticed dried blood there – Castiel spied it too, as he came up beside Sam.  
"This is yours," Sam said meekly, staring down at the maroon colour it had become.  
". . . Yes," Castiel replied, realising that this was the place they'd gone overboard at; the place where Sam had cut him.  
"I'm sorry I hurt you," Sam apologised quietly.  
"I'm sorry we ever had to cross paths," Castiel countered.

Sam frowned, and looked up at him.  
". . . That is to say, _in this way_. As enemies," Castiel explained quickly, as he realised what he had implied.  
". . . Right," Sam agreed, finally. He paused for a moment, looking into Castiel's eyes. The officer stared back, his gaze intense, as Sam considered what would happen between them when all was said and done - he didn't want to get Castiel in trouble, but he certainly didn't want both him and Dean to die . . . What was the right thing to do? Was it even possible to do right by everyone, in this situation? Or had he backed himself into an emotional corner?

Unbeknownst to him, Castiel wondered as he stared at Sam's pink lips, fresh-licked and glistening in the torchlight, just what he was going to do when this adventure was over, too. Would he hand Sam in? . . . Did he want to? Could he bring himself to?

It was a conflict shared by the both of them, simultaneously at cross-purposes and sharing the same feelings. The unspoken quandary continued for a moment more in their forefront of their minds, before retreating to the back of them, a low-level hum of worry they were each not able to shake.

Sam turned back to the railing.

Cas put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. Sam was glad of the contact: it felt comforting, even in small quantities, to know that there was someone there to support him, even if he soon wouldn't be there anymore. Even if that person had wanted to see him hanged a couple of days ago; even if he was part of the reason he thought he'd never see this beautiful ship again.

"We'll get to him, Sam. You'll see," He muttered. Sam just nodded once, not looking up from where his hands grasped the railing tightly, preventing him from swaying; his knuckles were white and his fingers were beginning to shake, but it was worth it, just to feel the familiar wood pressed up to his rough, calloused skin. He let go of the ship with one hand, letting it wander to the hollow of his throat, to gently grasp dean's amulet. Castiel looked on sadly, yet again resolving to see that damn thing around the neck of Dean Winchester – a criminal and a pirate captain, but most importantly of all, incredibly precious to Sam Winchester.

"Turn around," A voice growled from behind them. "Slowly,"

Sam and Cas froze, becoming rigid in their poses, as they heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. Glancing at one another momentarily, they decided it would be best to do as instructed in this case – even if it was a dangerous pirate enemy of Sam's that would rather kill them than give them the time of day, or the authorities, stumbling upon their unlikely 'friendship'. They knew they would be condemned, either way. They put their hands up, and began to move.

But when they turned around, they found neither of those options greeted them: Sam's eyes widened, and a ridiculously-grateful smile spread across his face. It was clear to Castiel that he knew the person who had accosted them.  
"Just who do you think you are climbing aboard my ship-" The woman was saying in quiet yet harsh tones, before she trailed off, looking at Sam – she also wore a face of shock and recognition, as she laid her eyes upon his tired face, his five-o'clock shadow, and the darkness all around them obscuring him slightly to her. But she still recognised him.

"Sam?" She asked uncertainly, disbelief evident in her face.  
"Ellen!" He gasped, his hands dropping down to his sides. Castiel followed suit.

She held her weapon aloft though, her wary eyes flicking to Castiel momentarily.  
"It's okay. He's with me," Sam told her calmly, and though it took her a few more seconds of sizing up the officer, she nodded once, lowering her weapon. "Come with me," She commanded brusquely, not showing any of the emotion that Sam was – he wasn't perplexed, though. Ellen would much sooner be practical, than have an emotional outpouring in the middle of the night aboard a pirate ship. Anyone could be watching – just because it was Sam's ship didn't mean they were safe. In fact, if he was seen here . . . He decided it didn't bear thinking about, as he gestured silently for Castiel to follow her.

They walked briskly and in silence. Ellen carried a lamp, lighting their way as they stepped off the Impala: Sam begrudgingly so, but understanding why it might not be the best place for him to be right now. As they got into the alleyways and streets of Covenant, making their way through the ramshackle settlements, with their buildings piled on top of one another precariously as if jostling for room, Sam found himself smiling softly up at the lit torches that hung from windows; the warbling sea-shanties he could hear; even the stench of sailors who seldom sailed anymore, in favour of their drinking and merry-making.

It felt good, to be in the company of – well, not necessarily _good _people, but people who would probably prefer not to gut him and use his organs for soft furnishings, given the choice. It'd been a long, exhausting few days – and, truth be told, he'd felt terrified the whole time.

_Well_, he thought, glancing back at Castiel, _not the _whole_ time_. Giving the officer – who looked incredibly, hilariously out of place, and wasn't happy about it – a small smile, he turned back to following Ellen through the thin streets, lined by merchants selling their wares, painted ladies, and petty thieves looking to steal anything that wasn't nailed down.

Ellen lead them up to the door of a building familiar to Sam; Castiel regarded it warily, not quite finding it to his taste. Though there was a soft, warm light emanating from the inside, the odour of alcohol seeped from its walls; there was a drunk man lying in the mud outside, out cold. Clearly a drinking establishment, then – though it appeared to be mostly deserted at the moment.

Ellen just shook her head and smiled briefly down at the man, before stepping inside, leaving him be.

Once they'd been ushered inside, Ellen cast a furtive glance around the streets outside, before shutting the door, and locking it with the deadbolt as well as an aged set of keys. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders visibly sagging as they watched her. Eventually, she turned around, and strode up to Sam.

"Sam," She greeted him, her facial expression still stony; her eyes were narrowed.  
"Hi, Ellen," He replied happily.

A sharp slap to the face was what he got in return.  
"Don't you 'hi Ellen' me! I was scared half to death!" She scolded him. Castiel looked between the two of them: Sam, rubbing his reddening cheek (she'd chosen the side without the black eye, fortunately); the woman, Ellen, fuming at him. Though she appeared very much angry, he could see that it wasn't due to malice, or resentment: no, that type of anger only came from affection.

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, looking at her sheepishly. Castiel had to stop himself from gaping or laughing: Sam Winchester, pirate and scourge of the seven seas – and a man with demon blood, to boot – being _told off _by the proprietor of a bar. Unbelievable.  
"You're damn right you are," She confirmed. "You know how many people think you're dead, right now? Dead, or _worse_," She added. Sam snorted.  
"Believe me, it was definitely _or worse_ for a little while," He replied, his eyes flicking to Castiel for a moment. Ellen looked between them, and made a connection.

"This one, here?" She asked, looking at the officer with an expression of mistrust, and then at Sam's black eye. Sam caught on her meaning, and hurriedly corrected her.  
"Oh – no! No, this wasn't-" He explained, gesturing to his bruised face, "We were on the Hellfire," Sam clarified. Ellen paled slightly at the mention of the ship, but Sam didn't want to linger on it (for all of their sakes). "This wasn't him – he's, uh . . . Been _helping _me," He added, trying not to blush, or act like something untoward was going on. Which, in Ellen's eyes, it probably was.

". . . Uh-huh," Ellen replied, looking between the two of them and raising one eyebrow. "Got a name, boy?" She asked of the officer sternly.  
"Castiel,"  
"Castiel, the First Mate of the Celestial?" She asked, her eyes widening and her hand flying to the gun in her holster.  
"Yeah, he is, but he's on our side," Sam reassured her, stepping slightly in front of Cas protectively. Still with her hand on her gun, Ellen looked between them once more, and pursed her lips.  
"Now Sam, I don't wanna say you're a poor judge of character – but that guy pushed you overboard," She told him.  
"No he didn't, I pulled him with me when I . . . Hang on, how do you know that?" Sam asked, perplexed about how she could even have guessed at what had happened to them.

Ellen sighed, her hand falling limply from her weapon. She made her way behind the bar, which stood at the side of the cavernous room, made up largely of wooden floorboards and supports, holding up the floor above them which Sam knew from experience housed an inn.

Once there, Ellen poured herself a shot of whiskey, and downed it in one. Castiel looked at Sam in confusion, but Sam wasn't looking back: he was staring at Ellen. The woman got out a further two glasses, and poured two fingers in both of them.

"Sit," She told them, her anger having dissipated somewhat. Sam made his way to one of the barstools, with Castiel following behind him unsurely. Taking the glass of whiskey poured for him with a nod of thanks, Sam sipped at him, awaiting her explanation with curiosity. When Ellen gestured for Castiel to drink, too, he declined with a, "No thank you,"

"Well, least he's polite," Ellen responded begrudgingly, taking his glass for herself. "I'm sorry for not talking to you on the way here. It's just, they - the navy - are looking all over for you,"  
"Huh?" Sam asked, puzzled by the idea. "I . . . I thought they'd think I was dead?"  
"Well, it was a possibility – but seeing as they got Dean, they want to get you, too. There's a price on your head, boy,"  
"Always has been," Sam quipped, taking another sip of whiskey. It burned, and it tasted like gasoline – but it was Seahouse whiskey, and it tasted the same every time he was here. It felt familiar.  
"Not just you, neither," Ellen replied, eyeing Castiel.  
"What?" The officer asked, shocked, "You don't mean-"  
"I do. You're wanted, too – for questioning. Don't know why, but since you went overboard, they really want you back . . . Ain't your cousin some big-shot commodore?"  
"Zachariah. Yes . . . But he didn't try and pull me from the sea. It is his fault I was marooned with Sam in the first place – Sam merely pulled me over the edge by accident. Zachariah was the one who left me for dead," Castiel explained, looking down at the bar they sat at: it was covered in scratches and engravings patrons had left: initials, occult symbols, lewd pictures . . . It seemed well worn, yes, but well _loved_. And, looking at how relaxed Sam looked here compared to anywhere else he'd seen him, it was obviously well-loved by Sam, too.

Ellen nodded, and continued: "I knew that cause he came around, asking after you two,"  
"Zachariah was here?" Sam asked, almost choking on his whiskey.  
"Sure was. He had his crew sail out here, with the Impala – he was trying to see if you made your way here. He stayed a couple of days, trying to pick up some other big-name pirates – took half my staff away for what he called _questioning_ . . . But I think he's gone now. He came in here, roughed up a few of the patrons, took a few of 'em off to the brig of his ship . . ." Ellen trailed off, her eyes looking haunted, as she thought of all the men and women she knew who came to her bar most nights, who had been dragged off kicking and screaming for charges of piracy that were usually unfounded.

"So the Celestial was here?" Sam asked, frowning.  
"Yeah. Left just this morning," She replied.  
". . . Dean was here. Today," Sam summarised. He gulped, and shut his eyes; ran a hand down his stubbly face. ". . . We missed him," He added, his voice thick with the emotional blow he'd experienced.

Castiel stared at him, feeling like his heart had been ripped out: to know they had come so _close _to Dean, and yet had missed him . . . It was a unique form of torture. Castiel didn't think he'd ever seen anyone suffer like Sam was suffering now, unless they'd lost a limb, or an eye.

"I'm sorry, boy," She apologised to Sam, her face wrenched in sympathy. She didn't comment when she saw one of Castiel's hands creep below the bar, to clutch at one of Sam's comfortingly. She didn't comment when Sam appeared to take it, either.

"It's okay," Sam replied, though it clearly wasn't. "We'll just have to catch him up – we're gonna need a crew, though – and a ship . . . Did you say they were the ones who brought the Impala here?"  
"They sure did," Ellen replied, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "They were looking to sell her – fortunately, your Daddy gave me a copy of the deed a while back, gave me all the official documentation – soon as I heard about it, I headed down there and gave 'em a piece of my mind," She chuckled to herself. "They were pissed, to say the least. But they couldn't argue – I had honest-to-God proof she was mine, so they couldn't sell her,"  
"Thanks, Ellen," Sam replied, finally smiling with great effort. At least _something _had gone their way.  
"It's fine. You boys – you and your brother have helped me out more times than I can even count," She pointed out, "If I couldn't keep the old gal for you, I wouldn't exactly be returning the favour, now, would I?"

Sam's smile widened: the way he was looking at her warmed Castiel's heart, in a way that was both totally unexpected and completely welcome. He recalled that Sam had said he'd lost his mother at the age of six months – that was no time at all. He probably wasn't even aware of what she'd looked like, aside from a picture or drawing of her that his father had kept, or had commissioned. This Ellen was clearly a friend of Sam's father – and, with the various reprimanding, concerned, and loving tones she was using, well . . . She could have been his mother.

Castiel found himself wishing he'd had a surrogate mother figure like Ellen. However, he hadn't – he and his twin sister had grown up with an absent father, also in the navy, and no mother. While Castiel had unquestioningly followed his father into the path of being a naval officer, Anna was much less pliant: she'd protested greatly that her role was on dry land, learning to be a lady, and one day, someone's wife; not having the freedom to do what she wanted, and go wherever she liked. Anna had rebelled, running away at the age of twenty-one, to live in a pirate port – he didn't know where – and had only returned when Zachariah had brought her back to their family home at St. Mary's, employing staff to be glorified prison guards, and find her a suitable match.

Castiel didn't like what had happened to Anna. They'd been inseparable as children, but had grown apart when they'd reached the age of sixteen, and he'd begun his training. He'd always wanted to help her, to set her free – but he'd hated the idea of her living amongst pirates, who he'd assumed were all evil and would sooner kill her than let her live freely amongst them . . . But considering what he'd found here – Sam for one, and Ellen for another – and what he'd learned over the past few days, he decided that when he got back to St. Mary's he would perhaps try and help her escape, covertly.

She didn't deserve the life set out for her, so he would help her out of it . . . That was if she hadn't been married off to some rich merchant already, he thought, feeling slightly nauseous.

"You boys can take room three, upstairs – it's next door to Jo, try not to wake her," Ellen warned them.  
"How is she?" Sam asked, smirking as he remembered her trying to stow away on the Impala last time they'd made port here. Ellen had been livid – both at her, and at he and Dean, for putting the idea that piracy was an exciting, viable career choice for her, into her head.

Ellen clearly remembered, too – she shook her head, but smiled all the same:  
"Still wants to go travelling with you boys. Don't think anything will stop her now . . . She'll be glad you're here. She was awful worried about you – and about Dean," She added, her concern showing in her last few words. It was clear that the naval officers that had harassed her and her customers of late had made it very clear what would happen, to her eldest surrogate son. Castiel felt ashamed of them – supposedly noble men – frightening this mostly innocent woman, and relishing the news that someone she cared about was in their brig, set to hang in a matter of days, with her unable to do anything about it.

The door suddenly rattled vigorously, drawing all their attentions. Ellen's hand immediately dipped below the bar, bringing up her pistol defensively. Castiel looked back at her, eyeing the weapon warily.  
"Lots of officers knocking around lately. Not all of them tame as you," She muttered to him, only taking her eyes off the deadbolt, whose strength was being tested at that moment with harsh shoves from the outside, for a fleeting second.

Castiel and Sam stood up, their hands losing contact as they simultaneously went for their swords. They drew in synchrony – they didn't spot Ellen's look of surprise at the fact they were so in tune with one another; how well they seemed to work, despite having only known each other for a few days. Granted, though, they'd been relying on each other totally for those few days, in the face of being marooned and being captured by the Hellfire – and the fact they seemed to have been more _intimate _than the average pirate and naval officer would ever even dream of.

The deadbolt splintered and shattered – Ellen figured there had to be two or three men, working together to hammer at the door, trying to break in and rob them. Well, they had another thing coming if they thought they could-

The light that emanated from the lanterns around the bar shone on the intruder – it was a single person. Well, not _person_, as such . . .

"Meg!" Sam snarled. "What the hell do you think you're-"  
"Got kicked out of all the bars downtown," She replied, stepping over the threshold.  
"In this short amount of time?" Castiel inquired, though he didn't lower his sword. Yes, he'd been happy to comply with her when it was necessary – but now, he didn't trust her in the slightest. A small voice in the back of his mind asked him, _will you feel like that about Sam, soon?_  
"You bet your sweet ass I did – guess the questions I was asking weren't ones they wanted to-"

She paused in her journey forward, freezing suddenly as if she'd hit a wall they couldn't see. Sam finally lowered his weapon with a smirk; Ellen set her gun down on the bar. Castiel, not understanding what was happening, looked at Sam in confusion:  
"Devil's trap," Sam explained, looking at Meg, who was scowling up at the dark ceiling to see the all too familiar symbol. "It's an ancient sigil - demons can't move out of it,"  
"Even after all we've been through, Sammy?" Meg asked, narrowing her eyes.  
"_Especially _after all we've been through," He replied.  
"Look at my damn door! . . . . You're fixing that, boys. And what have you brought to my bar?" Ellen asked the younger Winchester in annoyance, eyeing the young woman who'd single-handedly brought down said door.  
"Nothing that can't be easily exorcised," Sam answered, his gaze steely as he eyed Meg carefully.  
". . . She did help us, Sam," Castiel pointed out. Sam looked at him in disbelief, but Castiel shrugged, wanting to ask more questions. "What are you doing here?" He asked the demon.  
"You're going to St. Mary's. You've got your piece-of-crap ship back, and you need a crew," Meg stated, sounding rather bored.

". . . Yeah," Sam replied slowly, frowning at the demon, who sighed, looking at the floor for a moment. Finally, she looked up, and looked between Castiel and Sam for a moment, before telling them.  
"I wanna be on your crew,"


	8. Chapter 8

_**AN: **__thanks for reading this folks! You're all the best. _

_Warnings for some kinda NSFW stuff at the end of the chapter - I anticipate another two or three chapters after this one. Enjoy :))_

* * *

It was early morning when Sam and Castiel got up, and got to work finding a crew to leave as soon as possible. The previous day had been long, though – they hadn't gotten up of their own accord. Jo had knocked on the door, stepping in about two seconds later, before Sam and Castiel had time to untangle from one another.

Castiel had complained about being cold – something Sam never worried about, running slightly hot all the time. In fact, it hadn't seemed all that cold in the room, but . . . Well. He wasn't about to refuse the opportunity to sleep with the officer again.

He supposed all this was vaguely terrifying to Castiel: while Sam was where he felt safe, in an environment he'd known since he was small, and with people he'd known a long time . . . It was all brand new to the naval officer. The people here had suffered at the hands of the navy, in the last few days and their whole lives. It didn't matter that Castiel's uniform wasn't exactly identifiable anymore, what with the dirt and the rips and the blood: they recognised him as a stranger; not one of Sam's usual crew, who were notorious.

He was in an unfamiliar place, with people out to get him. Not least, Meg.

When they'd heard her request to join them on their journey, they hadn't thought she'd been being serious.  
"What?" Sam had laughed, incredulously. "No way,"  
"You were part of my crew, for a time," She'd responded.  
"No, we were _not_," Castiel had denied hotly.

The arguing had continued for a little while, with Meg tight-lipped about why she wanted to make her way to St. Mary's at all – as a pirate, and a _demon_, she had no reason to want to go to a port belonging to his majesty of the King. When Castiel had pointed this out, she'd finally snapped,  
"Will you have me, or not?"  
"For a price," Sam had offered, eyeing the knife on her belt. She'd paused, biting her lip and looking down at the weapon. He was testing her, she knew – but she clearly wanted to get to St. Mary's badly, as eventually, after a whole load of jibes and insults, she'd agreed to give them the knife.

Sam had looked extremely taken aback, but a deal was a deal. She was to come with them.

Now they just needed the rest of the crew. Assembling them would take a while – Sam had estimated the whole day, though it was clear he wanted to get away even quicker than that. Castiel thought he was being recklessly optimistic: he thought it would probably take a couple of days to get a crew together, and fully vet them, so as to ensure they were trustworthy.

But Sam didn't appear to care.

Jo marched into the room, her gaze first going to the vacated bed Castiel had been sleeping in, frowning as she saw it was empty. Her eyes quickly flicked to the bed Sam had been sleeping in, and widened: she certainly hadn't expected to find two full-grown men entangled sleepily together, mostly naked, bar the sheets covering them.

"Oh God-" She choked, an embarrassed smile spreading across her face, as she averted her eyes, looking at the ceiling, the floor, _anywhere _except Sam and Castiel's bodies.  
"J-Jo! – jeez, knock!" Sam exclaimed, his previous sleepiness slipping away easily as his cheeks blushed. Castiel looked around sleepily, noting Jo's presence, but not really minding that much. Sure, he didn't know her – but having a twin sister, as well as many other brothers and sisters, meant he wasn't exactly a stranger to being walked in on. Granted, he wasn't usually naked and in bed with a pirate those times, but . . .

"I did," She reminded Sam, "Mom's got some men together. Get your ass downstairs," She told him, still smirking, as she turned and left the room.  
"Already?" Sam called after her with a frown of confusion, but received no reply. ". . . Huh,"

It wasn't unlikely that Ellen had got the message to her friends and associates overnight, telling them she was looking for men to crew the Impala. The ship was notorious – as were its owners and usual crew – and while many hated it, Sam knew many would jump at the chance to sail aboard it. Even Castiel knew that people would surely enjoy the prestige of sailing on a ship so sought after by the authorities: if not for anything else, then for bragging rights.

"C'mon," Sam told Cas, untangling himself from the officer, his hands brushing in a slow and deliberate way against his skin in a way that made Castiel raise an eyebrow, "Get up. There'll be time to wash later – we'll see to that would when we're on our way," He added, gesturing to Castiel's injured arm. The officer looked down at it, observing it clinically, and seeing that it hadn't bled overnight. That had to be good news.

Pulling his own shirt on, he watched Sam get dressed: he looked to be in a hurry. He simply couldn't wait to get away. Although this place was somewhere he felt safe, and St. Mary's certainly wasn't, he knew it was because he urgently wanted to get to Dean; to save his brother from the gallows. He finished dressing long before Castiel, though his movements obviously jarred his stitched up side, making him hiss. He looked to be largely ignoring his own personal discomfort, and thinking only of his brother, and saving him . . . Castiel found himself strangely jealous. Not just because Zachariah, his own flesh and blood cousin, had purposefully left him to die, while Sam was risking life and limb to save his family . . . But because he himself wanted Sam's loyalty to this degree. Would Sam go to these lengths, if he were in danger? Would he even go half as far, to rescue Castiel? Granted, they had slept together now, which brought them closer together, but . . . Well, he knew he couldn't compete with Dean – the Winchester brothers' co-dependency was scarcely left out of the tales told by sailors and naval officers alike, so famous was it – but he'd like to know that Sam was at least a little loyal to him.

That when he got Dean back – as he'd vowed to himself he would help Sam do – he wouldn't turn on Castiel.

Sam left the room, leaving Castiel to pull his trousers and boots on. He felt a little dismayed, knowing in his heart of hearts that while Sam was a good, kind, loving man, it wasn't exactly in his best interest to let Castiel be free.

He also knew, now, that he wouldn't have the strength to fight back; he didn't want to hurt Sam, or have the hangman take his boots. He would be powerless to stop him, if he decided to turn on him, which he most likely would. And if he didn't, Dean Winchester probably would.

Feeling resigned to his fate, and wondering when he'd started having such deep feelings for a pirate that he had completely ruled out ever handing him in, Castiel followed Sam downstairs to the bar.

* * *

Sam sat at the bar, silently surveying the whole room, which was bustling with activity: it was packed with sailors, who'd all heard about Sam needing a crew overnight, and had decided to chance their luck upon the Impala. Sam recognised a few of the faces – good sailors, if not good people – but not all of them. Ellen sidled up behind the bar.  
"See anyone you're not too sure of?" She asked him, also having a look around at just who she'd managed to summon.  
"Well – I don't know those three guys," He pointed out, gesturing to them. Ellen looked over, seeing a group of three sailors older than Sam: two of them were talking amongst themselves, and the third appeared to be watching Sam with single-minded concentration. The younger Winchester felt uncomfortable under such obvious scrutiny, and looked back at Ellen, ignoring the third man for now.

"Those two are Kubrick and Creedy. Mostly harmless – Kubrick could talk the hind legs off a donkey with all that stuff about a higher power, though," Ellen told him, referring to the two talking men.  
"And the other guy?" Sam prompted. Ellen pursed her lips, her gaze flicking to the third man again, but only for a second.  
"That's Gordon. He's . . . Well, he's a good sailor. Even better hunter,"  
"But?" Sam asked, joined by Castiel, who'd made his way downstairs by now. He sat on the barstool next to Sam – but not too close. He didn't want people getting the wrong – well, the _right _idea, but it was probably construed as _wrong _by most of the people in this room. It certainly would be by Zachariah and the rest of his family, and crew.

Well. Perhaps not by Anna . . . She always did accept people for who they were. She saw the best in them.

"But . . . Well, let's say he's a handful. Doesn't like working with others that much – except those two. But I get the feeling they work _for _him, rather than with him,"  
"Right," Sam accepted, nodding slowly. He visibly collected himself, and stood up, before calling for everyone to be quiet.

It took a few seconds, during which time Castiel stoods up, keeping close to him, but eventually, the sailors Ellen had gathered all shut up. Sam knew that everyone there wanted to be on his crew: the bar wasn't usually open at that time, and it looked like no one else was staying at the inn. His best guess was that everyone had cleared out, once the navy had come knocking.

Once he was sure he had everyone's attention, he took a deep breath, and began to speak:  
"Uh . . . Hey, everyone. Thanks for turning up at such short notice – look, I know you've probably heard all sorts of things, and you've probably had it pretty bad the last couple of days-"  
"They took my friend!" An angry voice shouted out, before it was joined by similar voices:  
"They took my husband-"  
"-my son-"  
"-my fucking horse!"

Ellen rolled her eyes. "Well, you ain't exactly gonna be needing a horse on this voyage, are you?" She called above the calamity. The crowd piped down a little.  
"Thanks," Sam muttered to her, before turning back to them. ". . . I'm really sorry for all you've suffered. I truly am-"  
"It's your fault!" The same first angry voice called out. Sam recognised the owner of the voice – a man named Walt, who stepped forward slightly, pointing an accusatory finger at Sam. "They wouldn't have even been here if you could do one damn thing right in your life, and just get killed!"

To Sam's discomfort, there was a smattering of voices of those agreeing with the livid sailor. Castiel put a hand on his back, out of view of the others – Cas' support helped him slightly, but he was still tense, knowing he faced such adversity.  
"Please, I'm – I'm really sorry, just stay calm-" He pleaded with Walt.  
"I'm done being calm! They take Roy, and you want us to be _calm_ – why aren't you offering up some kind of payment, eh? What, you're not gonna compensate us?"  
"I don't have anything to offer you!" Sam yelled back at him, finally losing his temper with the man, who wouldn't even let him apologise without interrupting.  
"Oh yeah? What about that ship of yours?"  
"I need her – _Dean _needs her-" Sam protested.  
"What about that stupid fucking amulet you're always wearing? First your brother, now you – must be worth a lot, with you two hanging onto it!" He growled. There were a few cheers from around the bar, and a few voices backing up the suggestion that Sam give up the necklace.

Horrified, Sam reeled, his hand flying to the amulet in shock.  
"I – I-" He stuttered, suddenly realising that he might have to give it up – this thing that Dean had thrown away, that he'd clung on to through it all, that was actually worth _nothing_ to anyone but him (including Dean) – he hated the idea. He was repulsed by even the thought of it.  
"You are not having the amulet," Castiel growled, his voice so deep and full of authority that even Sam jumped when he heard it. In it, he recognised the same tone of hatred and anger that he'd used on Sam, before the two of them had been through so much together – the same one that had made Sam wary of him, but that also made him shiver like someone was running a feather-light finger down his spine.

That shut everyone up.

"Sam does not have to pay you. You are here voluntarily – anyone who believes they are owed anything by Sam Winchester should leave, _now_," He asserted, drawing himself up to his full height; his bright blue eyes sought out the dissidents from the crowd, and dared them to defy him.

A few people got up, and left; Walt, notably, spat on the floor, before storming off. That still left enough people for a crew, Sam thought with relief.  
". . . Thanks for staying. It's much appreciated,"  
"Who's this guy?"

The question came from Jo, who was hiding out amongst the other sailors, hoping not to be seen by her Mom – but her curiosity had gotten the better of her. _Ellen must not have told her much_, Sam thought to himself, preparing himself for the next revelation to his would-be crew:  
"I wanna be completely honest with everyone here . . . He's a sailor, just like us – he's also in the navy,"

The sound of many hands flying to weapons was audible, even above the creaks of the ancient wooden building they were standing in, and the gasps of some of the more oblivious sailors. It was true that Castiel was wearing a coat that eagle-eyed viewers might recognise as being one issued by His Royal Majesty's navy, but pirates had been known to steal said coats from officers, just to look bad-ass. This, however, was not the case.

"But he's helped me get where I am today. Without Castiel – well, I would probably still be on the Hellfire," Another ripple of horrified noises from the crowd; the more sympathetic members tutted and sighed for them, having heard horror stories of that hellish ship before. "And he's agreed to help me get to Dean and, if we can, to the rest of my crew. He wants to help me save him – he's just fulfilling his part of the bargain by being here – nothing more,"  
"Uh-huh," Jo replied, looking both Sam and Castiel up and down, one after the other. Sam looked at the floor, shifting uncomfortably – it was uncanny how similar her reaction had been to her mother's; how easily she'd seen through what was possibly a lie, by this stage in his and Castiel's relationship.

A few barks of laughter and more sniggering rumbled through the crowd: while Sam tried not to let his face heat up anymore with the thought that all these people were now whispering amongst themselves and gossiping about _him_, Castiel simply looked around, fixing each person with that same steely gaze he'd used earlier. Sam heard the door open and shut as someone left; he didn't know who, and he didn't care, either. He didn't want them aboard his ship, if he was afraid of the mere concept of two men fooling around with each other. _Coward_.

"I can't guarantee we'll succeed," Sam continued, taking a deep breath: "But we'll try damn hard . . . We're leaving as soon as possible. So, anyone who wants to join can join – if not, I'm not gonna be upset, but . . . Just, please – I – _we_ need Dean back. Cause if they can get to him . . . Who's next?" He asked levelly, casting his gaze around.

He saw several faces look to the floor, looks of thoughtful concern playing across their faces.

"See you at the docks at noon. Pack for a journey to St. Mary's," He told them, and though it seemed a little redundant given how famous and distinctive the Impala was, he added: "Look for the black ship with the silver sails,"

"You certainly look like you've got your panties in a twist,"

Sam flinched at the sound of Meg's voice, shifting in his position at the railing of the ship next to the gangway, and looking into her dark, shining eyes.  
"Shut up, Meg," He replied wistfully, though his heart wasn't really in it. It was overseas, wondering just how he and Castiel were gonna pull this off. He'd doubted he'd even get this far – he thought he'd have his throat slit by the officer, or he'd be kept on the Hellfire as amusement for Alistair, or thrown in the sea by Brady . . . But he should have had more faith Castiel, he supposed. The man had kept up his deal so far, through thick and thin, delivering Sam where he needed to be, in exchange for Sam getting him off that island.

"One more time, with _feeling_," She replied sarcastically, sauntering up the plank until she was standing beside him. He rolled his eyes, shuffling away from her slightly, but otherwise didn't move. She moved slightly closer, just to annoy him. But her face wasn't as sinister as usual – it didn't have quite the same mocking expression.

". . . Do they know?" She asked, watching as several men around the ship hefted supplies around, and down to the cabin; fiddled with knots, and sails.  
"About you?" He asked, looking down at her with interest. Why should she care?  
"Yeah, about me," She replied, sounding bored with the conversation already.  
"No," He replied absently, looking out at the docks, as more men and women found their way onto his ship; he nodded at each, as they made their way on board. There were going to be around 20-30, if he estimated correctly.  
"Good. Demon on board . . . Don't think they'd stomach it _as well _as a naval officer," She commented. He nodded.  
"You afraid they'd throw you overboard?" He asked, with a smirk.  
"Just wanna get there without killing anyone," She replied, with a shrug. Sam was acutely aware, at that moment, of Meg's knife sheathed at his side She'd handed it over last night when they'd agreed on having her on board – then she'd wandered off to God-knows-where, to do God-knows-what. And seriously, he did _not _want to know that much about her life.

. . . Except he did want to know _one _thing.  
"Why do you wanna get to St. Mary's so bad?" He asked, frowning and looking down at her again. She looked out to the docks, seeing Castiel discussing the food supplies with one of the volunteers. She bit her lip.  
"Ever know what you want is the worst thing in the world for you, but then you do it anyway?"

Sam followed her gaze, looking at Castiel. Realising what she was referring to, he looked back at her, beginning to tell her to mind her own fucking business; but her eyebrow wasn't raised suggestively like it would have usually been at that point. She wore a look of resignation that gave him pause, his mouth opened slightly, but his words floating away on the sea breeze. She looked at him pointedly for a moment.  
"Guess demons and humans have that in common, huh," She quipped with a half-smile, and backed away to go off and do something else – probably nothing constructive, he thought, but something _else_.

Castiel jogged up the gangway at what must have been dead on noon, approaching Sam, and looking out at the docks. There were crowds gathered, pointing at Sam, and talking amongst themselves animatedly – but none were volunteer sailors.

"I could not convince the Harvelle girl to stay away. Her mother did not want her coming with us, but she is an adult, so she decided to come anyway," Castiel told Sam, sounding slightly put-out that he couldn't prevent one young girl from disobeying both himself, and her mother. Sam snorted.  
"Yup. That's Jo alright . . . We ready?"  
"Yes," Castiel answered, before leaning in closer to Sam, a hand on his shoulder, as he finished: ". . .Captain,"

And didn't that just send a shiver down Sam's spine: it felt good, the power of being in charge of the vessel, but it also felt incredibly _wrong_. Like he was stealing – like he was taking Dean's place, when all he really wanted was to get him back. All the same, he strode up to the helm, Castiel on his tail – his first mate, as they'd agreed last night, staring up at the stars through the cracks in the Seahouse's roof – and, when he was there, he finally yelled the command he'd been waiting to give ever since he'd hatched his plan to get to St. Mary's:  
"Weigh anchor!"

* * *

Later on, when Sam was trying largely without success to get to sleep – he and Dean had slept in the captain's cabin since they were kids, just increasing the size of the hammocks needed as they grew, so it smelled of his older brother in there, which was distracting when he knew said older brother might die in a couple of days – Castiel came in. Sam watched him wordlessly from the hammock, as he leant against the threshold.

"Permission to come in, captain?" He asked, raising one eyebrow. There was a glint in his eye, and a humorous tone in his voice. Sam suspected he might have taken some of the alcohol the crew had offered him with their evening meal. They hadn't spoken, then, merely glancing at each other across the deck: Sam had been talking to a man named Caleb, who'd been a friend of their dad's, about how exactly they were going to approach the port they were headed for; Jo had been quizzing Castiel about what life was like in the navy. When one looked away, the other looked up: they played a game of cat and mouse with their glances. It wasn't until now that they were actually speaking freely to one another on board this famous, familiar ship. Alone, at last.

Sam actually smiled, despite his malaise. Castiel slunk in, not moving as gracefully as he usually did. Sam sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the aged material of the hammock, and keeping a close eye on Castiel. The officer steadied himself on one of the wooden walls, suddenly examining the craftsmanship intimately when a particularly powerful wave struck the ship. Sam wasn't worried by the tides, though – he merely snorted, thoroughly amused by Cas' behaviour.

"You already did," Sam replies, with a sceptical yet ultimately happy expression.  
"Must be a power trip, right?" Castiel asked, leering at Sam from his position. "Never been a captain before, have you, boy?"  
"Me? No," Sam replied, a smirk slowly pulling at his lips. As Castiel made his roundabout way to the hammock, Sam stood up, ready to catch him if he fell.  
"Well, this is your big break . . . Gonna give me some orders, captain?" Castiel asked, his eyebrow arching once more, as he sniggered. He steadied himself, grabbing Sam's shoulders. The younger Winchester took hold of his forearms with his hands, looking the officer in the eye.  
". . . Cas?" He asked doubtfully, searching his face for where exactly this was going.

"C'mon, Sam . . . Dangerous pirate like you – sitting around feeling sad . . . I'm sure you could do something to me that would cheer you up," As he spoke he grew closer to Sam, eventually whispering the last part in a sultry tone. Sam gulped, his mouth suddenly dry.

". . . You're drunk," Sam told Cas, as he pulled away.  
"So?" Castiel replied. "Still happy to serve my captain," – and fuck, Sam loved to be called that as much as Castiel loved to say it, which was clearly _a lot_. His hands slipped down Sam's body, tucking into the waistband of his trousers, and taking the liberty of working them off of Sam's slender hips.

Sam gulped, his grip on Castiel's arms tightening, as he suddenly found himself half naked; staring like a deer in the headlights into Castiel's blue eyes, usually so pious and holy, full of delicious sin that Sam knew he shouldn't love, but _fuck_ – he sure did.

Castiel licked his lips. Slowly.

He slid his hands to Sam's back, rubbing them up under his shirt to access the tan, tattooed skin it obscured. Sam panted: his mouth was slightly parted, pink lips shining in the light of the nearby lamp. Castiel's hands slid agonisingly slowly down his skin: from the top of his back to the small of it, until he was grabbing Sam's bare ass. Sam jumped, huffing out a sudden sigh, and groaning with how burning the desire he was experiencing felt; how wrong, bad, _forbidden _it felt every time Castiel touched him, and he touched the naval officer back . . . Every time he felt something for the man he'd previously considered his enemy, but whose mouth he was now staring at as if it held the key to his salvation.

Castiel's head followed his hands, slipping downwards with the rest of his body: he maintained eye contact the whole time, and Sam was powerless to say no to that face, that _mouth_ he was so fixated on. Castiel was grinning and licking his lips again, like he couldn't _wait _to taste Sam, and it was all the pirate could do not to beg.

"I'm gonna show you just how loyal I can be, _captain_,"


	9. Chapter 9

_**AN: **__Still going strong on this one, although I don't have a lot of time to write it at the moment, with exams and assignments to do! But I will finish it - I anticipate 2 more chapters after this one. _

_Enjoy! _

* * *

Sam stared out at the port side of the ship, his expression concerned and apprehensive; Castiel watched him, his face equally troubled.

The day had come. They were going to rescue Dean Winchester.

They had approached the port via a route Castiel had set out for them, explaining how it was the one blind-spot of the copious number of lookouts at the port; how, when they stepped ashore at the one place it was safe to dock, they wouldn't be far from the naval prison where Dean was undoubtedly being kept. Castiel had felt like a traitor giving away these secrets away to pirates – but one earnest, thankful look from Sam, and that feeling all but disappeared.

He knew, in his heart of hearts, that this was right – despite what the voice of Zachariah in his head was saying to him. Instead he thought of his sister, telling him to do what he wanted, as long as it was the right thing to do – he listened to her, instead, and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam idly reached up to brush a hand against Castiel's, before turning to the deck with a deep breath.

"We'll be there very soon. The landing party should be as small as possible. Don't wanna attract any unwanted attention," He addressed his crew, thinking logically through how they were going to pull this off – _if it was even possible_. "I only want me and Castiel to go ashore. Any objections?" He asked, surveying the faces staring up at him.

A sea of shaking heads greeted him – it figured, that a bunch of pirates wouldn't want to spend any time at all at a pirate port, if it wasn't necessary.  
"Adhere to the code. Whoever falls behind . . ." Sam began, glancing at Castiel mid-sentence and pausing. The officer's blue eyes weren't sultry or seductive like they were the night before – but they were just as loyal, and trusting. Sam hoped he wouldn't have to betray that trust, as much as he hoped he could get Dean back.

". . . Stays behind," He finished, his voice quieter than before. There were a few reluctant calls of 'aye' from the crowd - he saw Meg stare up at him, neither agreeing or disagreeing . . . Just staring. He frowned at her, but she turned away.  
"Captain . . . Sam," A voice called from the crowd. He sought it out, and saw Jo, looking behind him with a haunted, horrified look in her eyes. She pointed, and everyone followed her gaze: there, on the cliffs that surrounded even the most isolated and forgotten parts of the port, were the corpses of dead pirates, strung up for sailors to see; rotting, with birds pecking at their eyes and skin. They were leather and bones, now: weathered and decaying and reduced to hideous signposts, and cautionary tales.

Just close enough for them to read, a wooden sign adorned the hanging corpses, tied up alongside them in a message that might have been specifically for them:

_Pirates, ye be warned._

* * *

"You do know the way, right?" Sam inquired in a hushed tone of voice, as they crept along the corridor of the prison. They'd made their way there through the secret passage Castiel had been referring to: having grown up in St. Mary's, and stayed there until he was sixteen and began naval training, he knew a lot about the place. Sam had been born there, too, but had left at the age of six months – looking around as they'd snuck into the prison, he'd wondered at the life he could have had, had his mother lived; had his father continued to be a naval officer. Perhaps he and Castiel would have both grown up officers, too, alongside each other. How different things could have been.

"I have not been stationed at this prison for years," Castiel admitted, pausing for a second as they heard a door swing shut somewhere close to them. Voices sounded along the corridor, echoing back to them – but they were soon silenced, drifting away as their owners took their scheduled break.  
"Oh, good. That's comforting," Sam hissed irritably. Castiel rolled his eyes.  
"I did not say I do not remember the layout, Sam," He chided. Sam sighed: he couldn't wait to get out of there. They'd agreed to rescue Dean first, then go looking for the crew: they were likely to be in a less-well-guarded part of the prison - _if they were even still alive _- as they weren't as high-profile as Dean. This high-security part of the prison, as Castiel had described it, had indeed had many sets of guards they'd managed to slip past, or occasionally incapacitate (all while making as little fuss and noise as possible). Castiel had adorned his wig again, making it easier for them to be overlooked . . . Or perhaps it just made him feel as if he wasn't so out of place, like he had been for the last week or so, taken by random circumstances to places he would never usually dream of going.

And all of them with Sam.

The pirate skulked along beside Castiel, his face steely with determination, and his eyes wary, constantly looking for assailants. There was something fascinating about watching Sam work with such a single-minded sense of purpose. It was hypnotic.

Knowing his brother, Sam assumed he'd already tried to escape many times. But, as no tales of the daring escape of Dean Winchester had made their way to him, he guessed that none of them had been successful. He guessed that the high security wing of the prison had lived up to its name.

Finally, they reached the turn-off for the corridor they'd been searching for: a large, wooden door stood at the end of it, guarded by a solitary offcier, who didn't look much older than eighteen. Castiel frowned at the sight – _a young man just out of his adolescence, left to guard the high-security wing of the prison alone?_

They hid behind the corner before the door they sought to pass.  
"The wing's behind that door," Castiel breathed, and Sam nodded. _Should be simple enough to get in_, he thought to himself. He went to lunge out and attack the guard, but Castiel frowned, placing a hand on his chest to stop him. He shook his head, frowning at the floor in deep thought – that guard . . . Much too young. And almost defenceless, should Dean Winchester break out, or someone try to break in.

Dismissing those thoughts and focussing on the task at hand, Castiel stepped out from his hiding place, catching the guard's attention:  
"Hey! You can't be here! This is-" He paused his barking about restrictions on prison personnel, his eyes widening. ". . . Hey, I know you – you're missing," He gulped, his hand on the handle of his sword.  
"Indeed, I am. But I have returned," He pointed out. "What is your name?" He inquired, trying not to spook the teenager as he moved closer to him.  
"Samandriel," The guard replied, looking wary.  
"Samandriel. I am Castiel, First Mate of the HMS Celestial," He introduced himself.  
"You . . . You can't go in there," Samandriel told him, nodding to the door behind him.  
"I am your superior," Castiel reminded him, a note of authority slipping into his voice seamlessly, in a way that made Sam – who was listening silently, imagining Castiel's calm yet dominant face as he spoke – want to jump him right there and then.

Samandriel's hand slipped from his weapon, and he nodded. He looked behind Castiel, clearly wondering if anyone else would be along soon.  
"You may go, if you wish. I will vouch for you," Castiel assured him, his voice losing the hardness it had had before, and becoming gentler, and more persuasive. Sam didn't think he'd met anyone who had more potential to be a conman than Castiel. He wasn't necessarily good at lying – but he was good at making people trust him. Hell, Sam trusted him – he realised with a sinking feeling that Castiel could just be playing him, too, like he was playing this kid.

Samandriel bit his lip, and paused for a few seconds, before nodding; depositing his keys in Castiel's hand. He walked away from the door, thankfully going in the opposite direction to the place that Sam was standing – they'd come in through the back entrance, after all.

Sam slipped around the corner when he was sure the kid was gone, and regarded Castiel: he looked _impressed_, to say the least.  
"There are more pressing matters at hand, Sam," Castiel said in a slightly exasperated tone of voice, that he never in a million years thought he would use with the famous pirate Sam Winchester.

"Right," Sam replied, keeping watch as Castiel opened the door to the high-security wing of the prison. Once it was open, he burst through: Castiel wasn't offended by his lack of regard for him at that moment, as he knew the fervour with which Sam was missing Dean; with which he needed to know that his brother was alive, and relatively unharmed.

Castiel watched him scope the place out like a bloodhound might sniff out a fox's trail: Sam strode past the cells on either side of him, looking into each one in turn to try and find his brother. Dean was so close, he could picture him in his mind – was he alone? Scared? Had he missed his brother as much as Sam had missed him? . . . What would he think of Castiel?

He reached the final pair of cells, looking first into the one on the right, then the left.  
"If you've come to bring me that shit you call food, then-"

Sam and Dean caught one another's eyes at the same moment, and froze. Sam, in his position outside his brother's cell, hand poised over his weapon, ready for the situation to go south at any moment; Dean leaning back on his elbows, having sat up from his place on the ground the moment that he'd heard someone enter the wing. The older Winchester's sarcastic words died on his lips, and he found himself genuinely shocked, as he saw his younger brother standing outside his cell.

". . . Sammy?" He breathed, his eyes wide and unbelieving.  
"Dean," Sam replied, his mouth suddenly dry; he was unable to move for a moment. Castiel watched as his mouth opened and shut, his eyes running all over his brother as if he'd never seen him before; he decided to unlock Dean's cell in the meantime, fearing that they might not have time for this emotional reunion.

Castiel was walking into view of Dean's cell, leaning down to open the door with the appropriate key, when Dean broke out of his disbelieving stupor:  
"Whoa!" He exclaimed in surprise, jumping up and looking fearfully between Castiel and his brother. He recognised that face, from the fateful day Sam had been thrown overboard. It was the exclamation that snapped Sam out of his muteness.  
"No, no – Dean, it's okay, he's working with me," He explained hastily.  
"This guy?! This guy, who threw you overboard?!" Dean asked angrily. Castiel looked up to Sam in a silent plea to calm his brother down before he released him, so that he wouldn't be attacked.  
"He didn't – _I _pulled _him _overboard, but – that's not the point. He helped me get here – he's gonna help get you out. He's on our side," Sam explained quickly, sharing Castiel's fears about them not having much time.  
"Seriously?" Dean asked incredulously, though he was a shade less angry than he'd been before. Sam nodded, a sincere expression on his face.  
"Really," He confirmed, and nodded almost imperceptibly to Castiel, who unlocked the door.

Dean came barrelling out: Castiel stepped backwards fearfully, but he needn't have – Dean was actually heading for Sam. He enveloped his brother in a crushing hug, his fingers like claws, grasping desperately onto Sam's coat.  
"Thought you were dead, Sammy - they . . . They told me you were gone," He confessed, his voice a whisper in Sam's ear.  
"Thought you might be, too," Sam responded, holding on equally tight.  
"I hate to break up your reunion, but we are currently in the middle of a prison crawling with guards who would very much like you dead," Castiel pointed out, not unkindly.

They pulled away from one another, Dean eyeing Castiel analytically, not quite as trusting of the guy as Sam was yet.  
"Right. How we getting out of here?" Dean demanded, looking between his brother and the officer.  
"The Impala," Sam replied with a grin. Dean gaped, looking elated by the news.  
"Baby?" He asked, his surprise turning to happiness about the return of his ship. He'd thought the navy had sold it, after all. That's what they'd told him.  
"I got her back, Dean. Ellen had her," Sam explained, sharing Dean's excitement. Castiel looked between the two of them – while he was happy for Sam, he felt a sudden pang of an ugly emotion he didn't want to admit was jealousy.

He wished he could make Sam smile like that: like he meant the world to him, and like he only wanted to make Castiel happy.

"Good work, Sammy," Dean told him with a smile, and a pat on the shoulder. Sam practically preened with the praise as Castiel watched – when Sam caught him staring, Castiel raised an eyebrow. Sam dampened his enthusiasm slightly, though he wore his smile a moment longer, just happy to have Dean back.  
"Let's move out," Castiel told them both, heading for the door they'd come in through. "Getting the crew out should be easier," He pointed out, as they made their way back the way they came.  
"Bobby and the others – they still alive?" Sam asked Dean, wondering if he knew.  
"Yeah – there were some cracks in the wall in my cell back there. I could see the gallows – and I ain't seen any of my crew down there yet," He explained.  
"They'll be in the main part of the prison. All we have to do is sneak into those less heavily-guarded areas, and-"  
"-didn't you think it a little strange, Castiel, that the high-security part of the prison only had a solitary _boy_ on guard duty?"

The three of them bristled: they were stood just outside the door of the high-security wing, when a large, grey-haired man stepped into view from around the corner. Around him stood many naval officers, gathering in large numbers and staring at the three of them with smug, callous smiles. Many of them had drawn their swords. Castiel recognised members of his own crew amongst the crowd – a reluctant Inias; a disgusted-looking Hester; an angry Rachel; a vengeful Virgil . . . They were focussing on him, too, as well as the pirates.

Their leader, as always, was Zachariah. The captain chuckled to himself lightly, as if he wasn't capturing men he would soon condemn to death.

"We knew you'd come, Sam – you and your brother are so psychotically, irrationally, _erotically_ codependent on each other . . . You just couldn't resist, could you?" He mocked.  
"Go to hell," Sam growled, not wanting to rise to the taunt but at the same time, unable to let the captain to get away with speaking about Dean like that. Zachariah merely laughed again.  
"I held off on hanging your brother this long in order to wait for you, so we could have a double-hanging. Just think – both of the Winchesters, gone at last," His eyes shone with the thought of it. "Worth it not just for the reward, and for my undoubted promotion to admiral . . . But to get rid of you two, who have been a pain in my _ass _so long I can't even remember a time I didn't want to see your rotting corpses hanging from a cliff," Zachariah explained. His crew remained silent, maintaining their various negative emotions towards the three captives.  
"At least buy me dinner first," Dean muttered to himself. Sam stamped on his foot.  
"But now I have you – both of you, and your crew . . . I knew when and how you were going to exact your _daring _escape plan, after all," Zachariah added with a self-satisfied smirk.

Slowly, Sam and Dean put two-and-two together, and turned to look at Castiel. Dean's face was the picture of anger, flames of ire burning behind his eyes; Sam's expression, though, was so much worse - it was as close to pure heartbreak as Castiel had ever seen. His mouth was parted slightly, and his breath had stuttered to a stop; his eyes were wide, and he was shaking his head slightly.  
"_No_," He breathed in denial.  
"You sold us out?! . . . You really are a no-good son of a bitch, aren't you?!" Dean snarled.  
"It's not true! I did not betray you!" Castiel denied, looking horrified at the prospect – that was when he realised that his loyalty, once and for all, lay with the Winchesters.

He had only felt mildly uncomfortable betraying his crew to get Sam into the port undetected to break his brother out of prison, while now he felt alarmed at the thought of being considered untrustworthy by the two pirates – mostly Sam, whose breath was coming faster now, to accompany his expression of hurt.

"No, not him – one of your current crew," Zachariah corrected, a tone of mock-boredom layered thickly in his voice, "One of them had this _crazy _theory about you having 'demon blood', Sam. He'd been looking to kill you for it for years – guess Mr. Walker finally got his chance,"  
"Gordon?" Sam asked, perplexed. He cursed himself for not being more thorough with his choice of crew.  
"That's right. We recruited him as a spy when we were in Covenant – he came ashore and warned us about you two, while you were sneaking through back-passageways, thinking you were so _clever_. We arranged for it to be easy for you to get in here – I suppose the problem for you now is getting _out_," He thought aloud, looking unbelievably pleased with himself. The three of them remained unamused.

"And this is just the beginning – your deaths are just the start of a revolution," The captain ranted, "Every single pirate is going to swing from my gallows . . . Everyone you love, everyone who's even _considered_ helping you, is going to end up dead . . . Which brings me to you, dear cousin," Zachariah added, turning to Castiel with a sinister look of amusement on his face.

"He's one of us, Captain," Inias pointed out cautiously, looking at the floor and avoiding the angry glare his fellow crewmen were giving him.  
"_Was_ one of us . . . But word travels fast, you know – I hear you have been helping Sam Winchester – indeed, you've been getting _very_ close to him, haven't you?" Zachariah sneered, obviously trying to provoke a reaction from Castiel or Sam.  
"It wasn't his fault. I forced him to help me. He had no choice," Sam insisted suddenly. Castiel stared at him dumbly for a moment - he didn't return eye contact, staring steadfastly at the captain. Castiel's heart fluttered in his chest - _Sam was trying to get him off the hook. _  
"Not according to Gordon Walker. He and his friends made it clear there was no 'forcing' involved," Zachariah replied. Sam ignored his brother's whispering voice in his ear asking what the hell was going on with him and Cas, in favour of paying attention to the conflict he was currently part of:  
"Zachariah," Castiel warned, his voice half pleading him to stop, and half letting him know that he wouldn't stand for this taunting.  
"I see you've been stripped of all respect for authority, too, taking that tone with your captain," Virgil commented. "I say we should beat it back into him," A few low voices agreed with him, and Zachariah smiled conspiratorially.

"Now, now – he was a member of your crew, after all," He pointed out, though it was obvious that he was not genuinely standing up for his cousin. Inias nodded anyway in agreement, unwilling to condemn Castiel, and not understanding the hidden threat in his captain's voice.  
"However, I do not want to be accused of favouritism – he is my cousin, after all," The captain pointed out. There was silence for a moment, during which time Castiel stared into his superior's eyes, begging him not to do what he knew he was about to.

". . . Send the order to prepare the gallows. We're having a triple-hanging this evening," He dictated to his crew. There were a few cheers and hollers – at heart, they were nothing better than the sadistic crew of the Hellfire, Castiel realised sadly, as Inias' cry of shock and denial was drowned out by the noise of officers surging forwards, grabbing all three of them, and dragging them back into the high-security wing they'd come from despite their struggles and protests.

It was no use. The escape attempt had failed, and now they'd all been caught. They would all die today.


	10. Chapter 10

_**AN: **thanks for sticking with this! Your alerts and favourites are very flattering. Sorry about the infrequent updates - as usual, work keeps getting in my way :/_

_Anyway, this is the penultimate chapter - hope you like it!_

* * *

Sam and Cas were shoved into two adjacent cells, with Dean flung into his old cell, across from them. His cry of, "You're gonna regret this, you bastards!" Was almost drowned out by the sound of the door slamming shut. They all listened as Castiel's former crew walked away, laughing and chattering between themselves loudly, obviously jubilant that they'd finally, at long last caught the Winchesters – both of them.

They'd also condemned their former First Mate, but it didn't seem to matter to them. Aside from Inias, Castiel thought dully. The man had been a friend – he speculated that he would probably take this harshly.

He felt oddly disconnected from his fate, as he listened to Dean Winchester fume in the cell opposite. It was as if it were happening to someone else: someone who had been betrayed by all their former colleagues and friends, not to mention their family.

But he knew it was happening to him, really. He just wished it wasn't happening to Sam, too.

He turned to look through the bars of his prison at Sam, who was pacing – much in the same way his brother did, but more slowly, and with an expression closer to morose than furious.  
"It's my fault," Castiel muttered.  
"You're damn right it is!" Dean yelled from across the room, banging his hand on the metal bars of the door, which rattled but refused to give – just like every other time he tried it. "What were you thinking bringing him here?!" The older pirate asked, gesturing to Sam.  
"It wasn't his decision, Dean! I made him promise – I got him off the island we ended up on, and he agreed to bring me here!"  
"Yeah, I'm sure he was real enthusiastic to bring a pirate to a fucking naval port – think it through, Sam!"  
"What the hell do you think I've been doing, Dean? He didn't want to bring me here – you heard Zachariah, this isn't on Cas!"  
"Cas?" Dean replied, a tone of revulsion in his voice as he spat out the nickname. "He's Zachariah's fucking cousin, Sam. What do you expect?"  
"What, the same one he's about to hang?" Sam snapped. Dean opened his mouth to respond, but couldn't argue with that.

"Even if it's not your fucking fault – you must have known what would happen," Dean told Castiel, turning to him when he realised his brother would never stop fighting him on the issue.  
"Your brother was adamant. His only wish was to get you back – we suffered being marooned, being captured by the Hellfire-" Dean's face paled at that, and he bristled at the ship's name, "-we were tortured and almost killed – we got your ship back and summoned a crew. We even survived each other, all to get to you. So I could keep up my end of the bargain, and Sam could get his brother back,"

Dean scoffed at that, turning around and placing his hands on his hips in frustration.

"Do not turn away from me, Dean Winchester. And do not be so ungrateful for this attempt at your rescue," Castiel warned. Sam stared at him throughout the speech, looking surprised; thankful, that he didn't have to fight his brother alone on this one. He knew he'd lose, eventually.

Dean turned back slowly, a dangerous look brewing in his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry – I should have been grateful that your frat-buddies raided my fucking ship, and are gonna kill me," Dean mocked. Castiel's face grew darker by the second, as Sam watched, wondering how he could stop this argument, but figuring he would probably just have to wait it out.

"Maybe the issue here is that I haven't been quite as grateful for your holy fucking presence as Sam is – what was that crap back there? You two getting close, or whatever? . . . Something I should know, Sam?" He asked, his fury like a whirlwind, as he let out his frustrations on the other men.  
"Dean," Sam tried to calm him down with a steady voice, but he didn't listen.  
"Seriously, Sam? Seriously? A fucking naval officer?" Dean questioned in an accusatory tone, looking his brother right in the eye. Sam couldn't take it – he looked away, an ashamed blush creeping up his neck. Castiel watched as Sam looked particularly chagrined; completely guilty, thinking about all of the things that he and Castiel had done with one another, and for one another. How good they'd made each other feel.

He couldn't have that. He didn't want Sam to be ashamed on someone else's behalf – even if it was his brother – because he deserved to make his own decisions in life. Like Castiel, he'd had many of the larger decisions in his life taken out of his hands: forced into the family business, and to not complain about it; trapped, with no real way out that wasn't transitory or fleeting.

This was a decision he should make himself, that his big brother shouldn't have a say in. This was Sam's choice, and he would defend it, because he – well, because he cared about Sam, and he – he-

"I am sorry," Castiel began, his voice low and authoritative in a way that made Sam's ears prick up, and Dean's spine shiver, "That you do not consider me good enough for your brother, whether it be due to my sex, or my occupation. But it is entirely Sam's decision who he decides to copulate with. It is not one that should be dictated to him by his family,"  
"I don't have a problem with your . . . Sex, or whatever," Dean huffed, "It's more the fact that you've been trying to kill us for so many years," Dean explained, more calmly now. There was still a dangerous quality to his speech, though, that somehow the softness of his voice only amplified.  
"I have not been trying to kill you – I saved Sam's life. Without me, your brother would have drowned,"

"What?" Both Winchesters asked in synchrony. Castiel looked between them, sighing, before averting his eyes to the ground. Slowly, Sam drew nearer to the bars of his cell that adjoined with Castiel's, looping his fingers through them and studying Castiel with intrigue and mild horror.

"Sam . . ." Castiel began, after taking a deep breath. ". . . You were rendered unconscious soon after your fall into the sea. Perhaps you were dragged under, or-" He caught himself, not wanting to think about Sam dying for much longer – even despite their situation. ". . . I swam ashore, carrying you. You had seawater in your lungs, and I – I revived you,"  
"What?" Sam asked again, his voice strangely reverent. Dean looked between the two of them, gaping, before refocussing on Castiel.  
"You were unconscious for around a day or so, after that. It was time enough for me to strip you of your effects, and-"  
"And decide whether or not you wanted to just kill him," Dean finished coldly. Castiel nodded – it was now his turn to look ashamed.

But Sam wasn't offended. He understood perfectly – in that position, he would have faced the same decision. He reached through the bars, extending his arm to gently take hold of Castiel's hand. The officer looked down at it, before looking up at Sam. He wore a sad smile – which, through prison bars, was only more heartbreaking.  
"Hey," He murmured to him, "It's okay. I forgive you . . . And thank you,"

Castiel took his chance. Glancing over at Dean, who was now facing away from them, presumably contemplating this new twist to their tale, he leant in and kissed Sam through the bars. It was slow, as if they had all the time in the world – perhaps because they didn't. It was good to pretend, though.

It felt like forgiveness. And upset. And – and love.

Dean began to turn around, and the younger Winchester pulled away swiftly. Castiel smirked a little at that, watching as Sam visibly considered the effect seeing him kiss someone – especially another guy, and a naval officer – would have on his brother.

No romance novel shit, Sam thought, pretending the kiss hadn't just happened, while simultaneously savouring the memory. It might be one of his last, but it was certainly one of his best.

"So you revived Sammy. Sure, that's . . . Okay. Thank you," Dean gritted out. "You're still one of them," He pointed out, still just as cold as ever.  
"Dean," Sam caught his brother's attention. Deam was pissed, yeah, but more at this Cas guy than at Sam. He must've lead him astray or . . .Something, "He's not one of them . . . Not anymore,"

Castiel bowed his head in sadness, and Sam bit his lip, hoping he hadn't offended him. "It's true," The former-officer said, "I worked for them for so long, but in just a few days of what was technically aiding piracy – well, I felt more like I was fighting on the side of good than I have felt in my position in the navy, ever," Dean straightened a little, folding his arms but clearly listening. Sam, of course, was enraptured – it was getting on Dean's nerves, but, well . . . Last day on Earth, might as well forget the little things.

"I felt as if I was fighting for free will – with the navy, I was steadfastly enforcing the law, with little regard for why people like you did what you do. But I understand now – you genuinely help . . . You hunt, as you call it. You fight those awful people we encountered on the Hellfire, and . . ." He gulped, finally looking up, and between the brothers he'd unwittingly – yet unapologetically, now – taken on as his allies. ". . . You fight so that we can be free. And I sincerely believe there is very little more noble than that," He finished, holding his head high, in the knowledge that he'd summed up his feelings well.

Dean openly stared at him, looking him up and down for a few moments, before he asked Sam,  
"He always like this?"

Sam chuckled, despite the tension that had built up in the wing; perhaps he chuckled because of it; because it was easier and less unseemly than just freaking out and crying. Putting a brave face on things, though, had always been a trait the Winchesters excelled at.  
"Only on days that end in a y," Sam quipped.

Cas smiled at him. He smiled back. Dean turned away again, feeling slightly awkward. Suddenly, he froze, striding forward with purpose to the small hole in his cell wall, and crouching slightly to look through it. He'd spied some movement outside, and he intended to investigate.

"Holy crap . . ." He breathed, before turning around to face the others, who moved as close to him as they could get with a synchrony he supposed they'd gathered somewhere along the way during their journey. His face was already beginning to pale from being trapped indoors for many days, but he grew paler still, his freckles standing out in a way that reminded Sam of when they were younger – indeed, the expression of fear masked by bravado that his brother wore at that moment reminded him of the stoical expressions Dean used to make as a child.

"They're assembling the gallows right now – three nooses, in a row," He informed them in a low, carefully controlled voice. He looked from Castiel to Sam, before turning back to the wall to look through the hole, down to the courtyard below, which was surrounded on all sides by the high, grey stone walls of the prison, which left little natural light aside from at noon.

". . . Won't be long now," Dean muttered to himself. Sam gulped, looking from his brother's back to Castiel, who was looking at him already. The former-officer gave him a watery smile. Despite everything, Sam forced himself to smile back, and link his fingers through the bars between them; Castiel provided him with the skin-on-skin contact he sought.

It was hard to be ashamed, now, when they had such little time. It seemed kind of trivial, in the face of dying alongside his brother, and the person who he could have seen himself falling head-over-heels for in the near future, had their plan actually gone right.  
It didn't matter what he wanted, or what he planned anymore, he supposed. But he could still dream, at least for a little while, with his brother in front of him and Castiel holding his hand through stalwart prison bars.

* * *

When they emerged from the grey stone corridors of the prison, Sam's first move was to look up at the sky. Despite the fact that the three of them, walking one behind the other, were completely surrounded by swarming naval officers, meaning they couldn't see much else besides the blue-black of naval uniforms . . . The sky was still there. That was one last thing that couldn't be taken from them.

Aside from each other.

Sam gazed upwards at the dark expanse of the sky, his feet working on autopilot, and realised this was the last time he would see it. Aside from the sea, it was the most enormous thing he'd ever witness: the never-ending reach of both let him know that he was small, which – far from being something that depressed him – made him smile, even now.

There was something larger than him. A plan, an order – his crimes didn't matter, because he helped others while committing them. His failures didn't matter, because they were part of some larger success, that he could never even hope to fathom.

His death meant nothing. It wasn't even the end, after all. He just hoped he'd get to see Dean again.

. . . And Cas. Sam knew he hadn't done right by him, being reckless enough to cause this to happen to him. He glanced over his shoulder at the naval officer, catching a glimpse of his piercing blue eyes staring directly at his head – they shared a desperate second of eye contact before Sam was shoved and told to keep his eyes forward.

So he turned, and faced his brother: he had turned around at the slight commotion. Sam caught Dean's eye before he, too, was turned back around: he smiled weakly, still trying to maintain his bravado in this dire situation – undoubtedly for Sam's benefit.

Yup, that's Dean alright, he thought sadly, smiling slightly to himself. It was almost laughable, really – they were about to die, and Dean stillwanted to set him at ease.

Maintaining his balance despite the shove, and despite the fact that his hands were tied behind his back, Sam continued to walk. Finally, after having his view blocked by naval officers for so long, he saw it: the three-noosed gallows that would be the site of their deaths. They were lead up the splintered wooden steps, the Winchesters dragging their feet all the way; Castiel managed to keep his head held high.

He could see through the lie, now. If he was to die for simply fulfilling a deal with another human – for loving another man, then so be it. He could see the corruption behind the institution he'd served, and he wanted no part in it. In all honesty, Castiel decided he would rather die.

So he returned Zachariah's smug gaze with his own: like an ice-burn, it was scorching in its intensity, forcing Zachariah to eventually look away, as each of them was manoeuvred into place.

Dean on the right. Sam in the middle. Castiel on the left. Three nooses, in a row – three pairs of boots for the hangman, who was the only person who remained with them on the raised platform of the gallows. As they looked out across the courtyard, they saw the sea of naval officers that had gathered to see the hanging of Sam and Dean Winchester – or perhaps to see the hanging of their former colleague. They wore various expressions of awe and triumph if they were there to see Sam and Dean die – the ones who felt conflicted about the death of one of their comrades had more troubled faces, which stood out from the crowd, like torchlight through seemingly impenetrable thick grey fog.

Torches lit the area, as an officer stepped up to the podium to read the charges against the three of them from a long, long roll of parchment:  
"Sam and Dean Winchester. You have been found guilty of the following crimes against the crown: multiple counts of murder, grave-robbing, robbery, piracy, kidnapping, torture. . ."

As the charges continued – though very few of them were true, or in context – Sam glanced over at Dean, who looked back at him. He winked at his younger brother, who rolled his eyes: they were unable, even at this late hour, to abandon the essence of their relationship.

They were brothers. They were brothers, through it all.

". . . As a penalty for these crimes, you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead," The officer finished. There was a moment of silence, while the officer unrolled a second piece of parchment – which was significantly smaller, everyone in attendance noticed.

". . . Castiel Novak," The officer announced after a moment of silence. Sam glanced worriedly at his friend, who was staring forlornly at the officer about to read his charges. Even Dean craned his neck a little to look at Cas, wondering if he knew the guy that was about to condemn him to die, on the orders of his cousin.

Castiel did, in fact, know him: it appeared they'd made Inias read out his charges. Zachariah was cruel, by nature – Castiel had previously put it down to him wanting his officers to be disciplined and strong, and to obey his command – but he now knew that it was down to his general desire to see others get hurt, or to suffer. He must have commanded Inias to fulfil this role, in order to torture him. He knew they were friends, after all: Castiel had been kind to him, while the other officers had called him weak, and belittled him. One look at Inias' face confirmed to Castiel that he felt as if he were being torn apart; betraying his friend, and his former superior officer.

". . . You have been charged with aiding and abetting piracy. This, in itself, is . . ." Inias cleared his throat a little, trying to prevent his voice from breaking. Zachariah was staring at him with glee, waiting for him to fail, or say he couldn't perform the task he'd been assigned – but Inias carried on. Castiel was almost glad, simply because it meant Zachariah didn't get his way, for once.

". . . Is tantamount to piracy, a crime against the crown for which the punishment is death by hanging. You shall be hanged alongside your accomplices," Inias finished. He rolled up the parchment, and stepped back, as all eyes went to the gallows once more.

The traditional beat of the drums that accompanied a hanging began to sound out across the wide-open space: a few hoots and hollers joined it, though the vast majority of the officers stayed quiet; obediently watching without comment.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean called to his brother, as the hangman approached him.  
"Yeah Dean?" Sam replied.  
"Joke's on them. These aren't even my good boots anyway," He replied with a grin that crossed the line between cheeky and unhinged. Sam rolled his eyes, which suddenly felt itchy and wet, once more – he wouldn't cry; he wouldn't let those tears fall, and acknowledge that this was the end. But it was.

"Shut up, jerk,"  
"Bitch," Dean replied, as the hangman stepped right up to him.

Zachariah leant forwards in his seat, watching as the hangman looped the first noose around Dean's neck. The hooded man took his time tightening the thing, Dean's face full of determination and hatred the entire time – in contrast to the brave face he'd put on a few moments ago for Sammy.

"Cas," Sam called to the officer, unable to stand watching what was happening to Dean at that moment any longer.  
"Stop them talking," Zachariah hissed. The hangman remained silent, though – Sam supposed he was conflicted about hanging an officer of the royal navy; he wanted Cas to have these few last words, in recompense for the life being snatched away from him.  
". . . I'm sorry," Sam finished, biting his lip to stop it from shaking, as the hangman stepped up to him; he felt the coarse rub of rope against his neck, joining the amulet that he never did give back to his brother, and knew it was too late now.

"It's okay, Sam," Cas assured him, as the hangman tightened the pirate's noose. ". . . I'll see you on the other side," He added, nodding upwards, indicating the heavens. Sam smiled weakly at him.

After all this, Cas thought he was going to heaven. Cas thought he was a good person . . . Cas wanted to reassure him, despite the fact that they both knew they were about to suffer a drawn-out, hideous death; their bodies would litter the cliffs of St. Mary's, rotting and decaying, for sailors to see and pity.

"I love you," Sam mouthed at the officer, as the hangman leant in to secure the noose slightly. He didn't want anyone to hear; he didn't want to be mocked or further vilified at that moment. He just wanted it to himself – or rather, between the two of them. It wasn't for anyone else to see, or hear.  
"I love you too," Cas mouthed back, understanding, as always. Sam supposed that if he wasn't so damned empathetic, with such a big heart, he could have never fallen for a pirate in the first place. And maybe Sam would have never fallen, too.

Sam looked away, staring at the hangman for a moment, before he moved on to Cas.

Nothing left to say, Cas remained silent throughout the process of the rope being tightened around his neck. His fingers, previously fidgeting and restless, fell still. He even smiled, slightly, in the knowledge that he was going to die alongside two good men – one who he knew was brave and just, and one with similar qualities, who loved him in addition.  
The hangman leant in to tighten the noose. Cas could hear him breathing, even though the hood. He stared down at the man's eyes, dark and full of grim purpose. He wasn't expecting him to speak, and almost startled when he did.

"Just let yourself drop, Castiel," The hangman told him extremely quietly. He frowned at the man – surely, he would have no choice but to drop when the floor fell from beneath him . . . ?  
"Take the noose off, and drop," The hangman repeated in a gruff voice that was no more than a whisper. Castiel's confusion only deepened.

However, when he felt one of the hangman's hands slip behind him and cut the ropes binding his hands quick as a flash, he realised what was happening. The hangman was going to help him escape.

He didn't dare turn his head for fear of giving away the plan, but he desperately wanted to know if Sam and Dean were part of the plan – what if the hangman only wanted to help him, and Sam and Dean died? Why should he be spared, if they were not?

His thoughts were frantic, as the drumroll began, and the hangman wrapped his hand around the lever that would attempt to send him to his death. Hundreds of pairs of eyes stared up at them in anticipation, filled with excitement and dread, as they waited for the hangman to do his job.

"Now!" He cried suddenly. Castiel didn't have to think twice – he brought his hands up to remove the noose as quickly as possible, taking a precious second or two to get the task done. He had just enough time to glance over at the hangman in confusion and gratitude, before he pulled the lever, and opened three trapdoors in a row.

As Castiel fell into the shallow pit below, the imprint of the last image he saw remained behind his eyelids, providing him with an answer, but also many more questions.

Because the last thing he'd seen were his would-be executioner's eyes: they were shining inky black back at him, glinting mischievously in the torchlight, which flared up at the moment that commotion and uproar broke out in the courtyard.

The hangman was possessed.


	11. Chapter 11

_**AN: **Final chapter! Thanks for all the support you've all given me (here and on tumblr) - this was most certainly a labour of love, and I really enjoyed writing it. I hope the ending is satisfying to everyone :))_

* * *

It only took a minute of flailing for Sam to realise that he was going to have to act fast if they were all going to escape. Looking around in the darkness of the pit they'd landed in – pitch black, aside from the torchlight seeping in through the holes they'd fallen through – he thought he was seeing things when he noticed the glint of metal. He reached out for it: his sword. Not only his sword, but his satchel – how the hell . . . ?

"Sammy!" Dean yelled at him. He glanced over at his brother, and saw him with a sword of his own – he hadn't taken the chance to question what the hell was going on, though. He was just running with it. "Come on!" His brother hissed, before climbing back out of the pit, out onto the gallows again, to make his escape attempt.

Sam cast his gaze around in shock, seeking out his companion – Castiel stared back at him with an identical look of wonder. They simply couldn't believe what was happening: ithey'd been given a chance/i. Saved at the last possible second - and by a idemon/i, no less.  
Cas was just glad that their saviour had spared Sam and Dean, too.  
"C'mon," Sam echoed his brother's earlier sentiment, pulling himself up and hoisting himself out of the trap door he'd just fallen through. Castiel followed suit.

When they arrived on the wooden platform, they didn't have long to look around and survey the utter chaos: they were thrown straight into the fray. Sam briefly glimpsed Dean fighting off about five officers at once. He'd clearly been itching for a fight – but that was too many, and Sam was sure he was going to be defeated.

But Castiel grabbed his arm, and pointed into the crowd. For a second, Sam was able to see what the former-officer was pointing at: some of the officers were rebelling. They were causing further confusion, while the men who sought to kill the three convicts tried to do their job. Sam didn't need to wonder why some of the officers were causing trouble: he'd seen the dissent in the faces of half the crowd, who wanted to stop the hanging of one of their own. He guessed that, now, they were getting their chance to do something about it.

The rebellious soldiers, while not killing their fellow officers, were getting in the way – and that was all the three escapees needed.

Sam and Castiel leapt down from the platform, making their way to the large metal gate that would be the key to their freedom from the courtyard, and the prison. Casting his gaze up for a precious moment, Sam spied one officers running to the controls for the gate, which were above them: he was going to shut it, and they wouldn't be able to get out.

"Dean!" He yelled, as three soldiers made their way head-first towards him and Cas.  
"I'm comin'!" Dean yelled back, his voice strained with concentration. It appeared he'd been able to shake three of the five officers opposing him, but the remaining two were harder to get rid of. However, Sam didn't have long to contemplate this – he had his own opponents now.

He brought his sword up just in time to stay the swoop of the blade of one of the officers, grimacing and gritting his teeth with the effort of stopping the heavy blow. He struck back, pushing the guy to the ground, and turning to the next officer.

He found the other two fighting Cas, who was holding his own against them: he was moving almost too fast to track properly, but Sam was able to intervene easily enough. He slammed into the side of one of the officers, knocking the wind out of him and sending him barrelling comically into the other one, who fell over as well.

Castiel looked up at Sam with eyes wide with the excitement of combat.  
"The gate! Come on!" Sam yelled to him over the commotion. He spotted Dean making his way towards the exit, as the gate began to lower slowly.

The two of them rushed forwards: however, in a second, Sam found himself flat on his back, having run into the outstretched arm of a naval officer. Winded, he looked up, blinking rapidly to try and dissipate the shock.  
"Sam!" He heard Castiel cry.

The shadow of his assailant loomed over him, blocking out the moon and stars. He was wide-set for an officer – no, scratch that – he was an iadmiral/i. After catching Sam and Dean Winchester, he guessed, anyway.

Zachariah, with his hat knocked to a jaunty angle in the midst of the fight, and his eyes burning with hatred in the torchlight, regarded Sam with utter disgust. He planted one of his boots firmly on Sam's neck, which had barely recovered from the redness left by the rough rope minutes ago; he kicked the younger Winchester's sword out of reach.  
"You don't know how much of a ipain/i in my iass/i you've been, Winchester," He hissed, slowly applying more pressure to Sam's neck. The pirate's limbs flailed, fingernails scratching at the leather of the boot. Castiel and Dean tried to make their way towards him, but found their path blocked by numerous officers, each one intent on fighting them to the death.

"Filthy pirate," Zachariah sneered, "You thought you could win, against us? Against ime/i?"  
Sam choked, his eyes watering, as he reached out for a sword he knew he wouldn't be able to reach. Zachariah laughed at his struggle.  
"Why don't you just give up? You're dead, anyway - all of you are dead – you-" He pressed a little harder, "-and your brother-" A little harder, "-my traitor cousin who you love so much-" Sam let out a grunt as he failed to draw in a breath. "-and all your ifriends/i,"  
"Good thing I'm not his friend, then," A gruff voice growled out, just before Zachariah flinched; the admiral looked down, and saw a blade sticking through his right shoulder, before it was abruptly pulled out. His eyes bulged in shock, and he staggered back, unable to pry his eyes away from the red blossoming on his pristine ceremonial uniform. He finally looked up, and saw the younger Winchester rolling away, coughing and spluttering and going for his sword; saw the hangman, his eyes black, holding a bloody sword.

"M-Meg?" Sam asked, looking up at the hangman.  
"Don't just sit there, get the fuck out of here!" She shouted at him angrily. He didn't need telling twice. Dean and Castiel had fought off a whole bunch of the soldiers, but the gate was almost shut – Sam ran as quick as he could, employing the tactic of simply dodging officers now, rather than fighting. They had seconds, at most.

"Dean! Cas!" He cried, managing to slide under the gate, before sticking his hands under it, and helping his brother through. The Cas rolled under the great cast-iron bars, barely making it in the nick of time before the thing shut, and there was no longer any escape.  
They all stood quickly, looking back through the gate for a moment – there, they saw the hangman. He was trapped on the other side, and Cas was filled with horror that their saviour hadn't been able to escape with them.  
"We have to help him!" He cried, turning to the brothers.  
"That's iher/i," Meg corrected through iron bars, with a cheeky grin.  
"What?!" Castiel asked, looking confused.  
"I'm Meg, genius. Decided to switch up and help . . . I made a promise, and for once, I'm keeping it,"  
"To who?" Sam asked, frowning, still catching his breath.  
"Doesn't matter! Get outta here, back to your precious fucking ship!" The executioner called back, turning around to face the mass of officers looking to detain the person who'd helped the three convicts escape the noose.  
"Thank you," Castiel called to her.  
"Did I fucking stutter?" She yelled back, entering the fray as if she had nothing to lose. The Winchester brothers glanced at one another, wondering what the hell was going on with the demon, who'd previously been their nemesis – but, in all honesty, they didn't really care at that moment.  
"C'mon – we're not out of the woods yet," Dean grunted, snatching up a torch from a holder on the outer wall of the courtyard. They were pretty lucky that nine out of ten able-bodied officers had wanted to view the death of the Winchester brothers, and a fellow officer, or else they'd be swamped with soldiers right now. As it was, the vast majority of the officers were trapped behind the iron gate, and the place was almost deserted – almost. They still had to be extremely careful: citizens would want them dead as much as officers, and they would have to avoid them (if there were any out at that time of night).  
". . . Right. Follow me," Sam told him, with just a quick look over his shoulder at the swords that clashed behind them.

* * *

It had been a tense half hour: they'd been avoiding prying gazes and wayward sailors the entire time, dodging people who wanted to kill or detain them left, right and centre. But, finally, they'd made it to the place where Sam and Cas had arrived on the island.

The cliffs were sheer – but the rope ladder Sam and Castiel had used to get onto the island was still in place, along with the row-boat they'd moored up at the bottom. It was a miracle that the thing hadn't been smashed up against the cliff-face, in Sam's opinion – but, having lived on the island for over sixteen years and having had a ivery/i dull childhood, Castiel knew this place better than he did. And he'd known a safe area to moor a boat, at least for a couple of hours, having enjoyed sailing as a hobby long before it was his career.

Sam looked back at him and smiled, as they approached the cliff edge. Turning back to where he was going, he almost bumped into Dean's back: his brother had stopped near the edge of the cliff. He was looking out at the moonlit ocean, and grinning like an idiot.

The Impala was out there, her silver sails shining like they were enchanted. Sam probably would have thought that their escape was the result of some kind of magic, if he didn't know any better – but he idid/i know better, and he knew he owed Meg a big fucking thank you, as much as he hated to admit it.

"Who wants to go first?" Dean asked, looking down at the rickety rope ladder doubtfully.  
"I will," Castiel answered quickly, a little too eager. The brothers looked at one another, before looking at the former-officer.  
"That settles that, then," Dean muttered a little sarcastically.  
Before Castiel could go over the edge, Sam grabbed his arm gently, causing him to look back questioningly:  
". . . I-" Sam shifted slightly, unable to say what he really wanted to say succinctly. ". . . I'm sorry. For what happened, back there – it was never . . . I didn't want to get you hurt,"  
"That's okay, Sam," Castiel replied softly – but his eyes drifted over Sam's face, and to Dean's. The pirate was eyeing him with curiosity and suspicion.

Castiel took Sam's hand in his own, and placed his other hand over it in an intimate gesture of care:  
"I'll . . . See you down there, I suppose," Castiel told him. Sam smiled at him, and nodded, before reluctantly letting go.

As they watched Castiel climb down, Sam murmured, "Wonder what that was about,"

Dean didn't reply.

* * *

The shouts and excited cries were audible from far away: the three of them listened intently to the yelling of the crew of the Impala, as they rowed out to the huge vessel. Dean beamed up at the faces of the crew leaning out over the edge of the ship: they waved, and gestured, and beckoned the other crew members to come over and see, as they pulled up alongside the ship.

Expertly, with years of practise guiding him, Dean grabbed ahold of the ropes that dangled down from the side of the ship, welcoming him home. He hoisted himself up, the familiar footholds helping him on his way back home. Eventually, Sam and Castiel saw him reach the deck of the ship, and place his feet down on the familiar wood that he'd grown up scrubbing and treading. They heard the mighty roar of the crew . . . More crew than they'd had before. Sam frowned.

"What is it?" Castiel asked, worried for a moment.  
". . . There's more people on the ship than when we got here,"  
"How?" Cas asked, frowning back at him. Sam shrugged, before standing up.  
"You okay to climb up?" Sam asked him.  
"Of course," The former officer replied curtly, standing up also.

The two of them made their way up to the deck slightly slower than Dean had – and when they got there, the reception they received was imixed/i, at best.

Initially, there were cheers, as they saw Sam Winchester alive and well back aboard the Impala – but when they saw Cas, their cheers quietened down, and the whispering and hissing started.

"Sam!" Jo cried, running up to him and grabbing hold of him in a hug he clearly hadn't been expecting. Cas eyed the two of them curiously: Jo was holding onto him tightly, and while Sam looked surprised, he was ultimately pleased to see her. She eventually let go, and he patted her shoulder with a smile. Castiel understood that, though Sam didn't have a sister, he'd certainly adopted one during the course of his life, somewhere.

Once he'd pried himself from Jo, Sam cast his gaze around: he froze when his eyes hit Bobby and Rufus, watching him with smiles. Rufus was shaking his head, uttering an amused, "Lucky son of a bitch," While Bobby was most certainly inot/i going to cry.

"Good to see you, boy," He mumbled, clapping Sam on the shoulder.  
"But – but how did you . . . ?" Sam asked, a little lost for words as he greeted his surrogate father. He genuinely thought he'd never see him again, Castiel realised – he had to admit, he'd thought the same. But, somehow, Sam's crew had made it out of the prison, as well.

Bobby chuckled, and looked over his shoulder towards, the cabin.  
"You can thank iher/i for that," The old sailor answered, somewhat cryptically. Sam and Cas were about to make their way to the cabin, when a voice sounded from the crowd of gathered sailors:

"We're just gonna let him stay?" The question came from one of the sailors they'd gathered from Covenant – a young woman called Tracy Bell. The crowd fell silent, at that: the vast majority of them were looking at Castiel. Suddenly, Sam understood Castiel's apprehension: the reason he'd wanted to climb down the rope ladder was because he thought they'd leave him behind. The reason he'd seemed quiet on the journey there was that he feared rejection.

The tension between him and Dean was caused by the fact they didn't trust one another; the fact that the crew were very unlikely to just accept his presence. Sam was saddened by the fact that not everyone could see, could iexperience/i how loyal and just Castiel was; what a good ally, and a good friend.

Sam stepped in front of Castiel, casting a warning glance at anyone staring at him at that moment. It was clear, to the former officer, that Sam was willing to lay down his life to defend him. His heart fluttered in his chest, as Sam growled,  
"He's staying,"  
"I thought he was gonna leave after the escape? . . . Captain? You can't seriously trust him?" Tracy asked, addressing her question to Dean, who'd been avidly discussing the new crew with Jo. He turned around, and looked at Tracy, before allowing his eyes to slide over to the former officer – or what he could see of him. He was mainly obscured by the body of his stubborn little brother.

"He was sentenced to die," Dean told them all; they continued to eye the officer critically, despite the best efforts of the first mate. "He can't go back, or they'll kill him. He helped us, so we're not sending him back," Dean affirmed.  
"But that doesn't mean he has to stay," Rufus pointed out. Dean looked at him for a moment, nodding slightly in acceptance of his point. He looked over at Sam again: his little brother's eyes begged him not to kick Castiel out. It was like the guy was a stray puppy – not a full-grown man, who used to be dead-set on killing all of them.

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand down his face – God, he was tired. But this had to be dealt with now. He cleared his throat.

"I trust my brother's judgement," He told his crew. "This guy . . . He saved his life, more than once. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be here. Half of you probably wouldn't be here, either," Dean turned to Sam, looking him in the eye and trusting him completely: "You think he deserves to stay, Sammy?"

Castiel gripped one of Sam's shoulders tightly in the brief silence that followed.  
"More than anything, Dean," Sam replied – and he just sounded so earnest, so sure, that Castiel could feel his heart swell in his chest at the thought of all that trust, all that love, reserved for him - especially in a man as tough as Sam Winchester.  
"Then he stays," Dean decreed.

"Anyone who disagrees, feel free to follow Gordon," Jo told Tracy in a low voice. "He didn't trust Sam's judgement, and now he's a spy for ithem/i," She indicated the looming port of St. Mary's with the last word.

Tracy looked at Castiel a moment more, before nodding. Sam knew, then, that while they might have some problems in the days to come, they could work it out. Castiel had earned their respect, now – and that was half the battle.

Sam turned to follow Castiel into the cabin, but found a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to see who it was, and found Dean staring back at him.  
"You better be right about this guy, Sammy," He mumbled.  
"I am, Dean," Sam vowed, and turned back to go to the cabin again. But Dean didn't let go.  
"Hey," He addressed Sam again; the younger brother turned back once more, a confused expression on his face. ". . . You got a little something of mine, there, buddy,"

Dean was staring at his neck – at the amulet. Sam could have sworn that his heart stopped.

Not only had Dean noticed the amulet – but he wanted it back.  
"Dean?" He whispered, and bit his lip, trying to stay the flow of emotional words that threatened to pour from his lips at that moment. Dean smiled at him, and that was when he knew: he might not have gotten a thank-you before for putting his life in danger to save his brother, but he was getting that thank-you now.

He took off the amulet, and handed it to Dean, who put it on. He gave Sam another smile, before turning away and going back to his work – which, as a Captain, was never done.

When Sam turned back to Castiel, he was beaming at him.  
"I hoped I would be able to help you hand that amulet over," The former officer told the pirate.  
"You did, Cas," Sam replied, sniffing and clearing his throat. "You did,"

Cas smiled, and turned away, heading to the cabin.

As they made their way there, Sam cast his thoughts about the amulet away, and thought about what Bobby had said: he'd referenced a ishe/i when explaining how the crew had managed to escape. It couldn't be Meg – well, unless she'd ireally/i gotten around in the past day or so. He imagined she'd been too busy staging their escape – ifor some reason/i. He wondered, again, why she'd chosen to help them. She'd spoken about a promise – but certainly not one she'd made to him, or to Cas.

For the second time in as many hours, Sam almost walked into someone stood stock-still in front of him, too distracted by his own thoughts. Cas had stopped in the doorway to the room traditionally used to house the sick or injured aboard the Impala. Sam looked over Cas' shoulder, and frowned at the strange scene he saw.

"She'll be back," A soft, far-away voice told them, it's owner not looking up. "She'll be back, soon,"

The first thing Sam saw was a woman he didn't recognise: she had fiery red hair, and wore an expensive-looking red dress. She was sat on a chair beside one of the old beds used for convalescing crew members, her elbows on her knees, with her chin resting on her clasped-together hands. She was beautiful, undoubtedly – but, strangely enough, she seemed completely transfixed on the person that lay before her.

Or, more accurately, the ibody/i. It was Meg's vessel.

The woman stared down at the body that used to house the demon: it was completely still, and undoubtedly dead, with pasty grey skin. But the way she stared indicated that she thought it was alive - or she thought it would spring back to life, at any moment.

Even stranger was her effect on Castiel, who Sam had rarely seen display much emotion, except in relation to himself (be that positive, or negative.  
"Anna?!" Cas breathed in shock, grabbing hold of Sam's arm for support. ". . . What – what are-"

The woman sat up immediately, her gaze drawn from the body on the bed, and her eyes wide.  
"Castiel?!" She cried, and leapt up immediately.

Sam watched as the two of them shared a tender moment, hugging tightly in a way similar to Jo had hugged him earlier – there was no doubt that they were siblings, and not friends, or lovers. The way they moved, the way they spoke . . . They were similar, in a way that Sam had trouble putting into words. They didn't even particularly look like one another: but they were, in some strange way, the same.

"Sam – Sam, this is my sister, Anna," Cas introduced her, beaming at her, and looking between her and Sam. "Anna, this is Sam, he's-"  
"The first mate and your suitor. I know, Castiel. I've been informed," She teased gently. Castiel looked a little taken aback at the use of the word 'suitor', Sam chuckled, and extended a hand to her. She took it, smiling up at him as she shook it. "Pleasure to meet you, Sam. I've read all about you,"  
". . . You have?" He asked, his smile faltering slightly as he considered what she might have read.  
"Sure I have! . . . The Winchesters," She sighed reverently, clearly a fan. "My family could never catch you - and if they couldn't get you now, I doubt they ever will," She commented, as they let go of one another's hands. Sam placed a hand on Castiel's shoulder.  
"I hope not," Sam agreed. He looked past her, and at Meg's vessel. Castiel followed his gaze, and suddenly remembered the strange situation he'd found his sister in – up until that point, he'd just been excited that she was there. He'd been planning on visiting her, maybe getting her away from the dull, subservient life she'd been condemned to – but life had gotten in the way of that plan, inevitably.

". . . Anna, what's going on here?" Castiel asked her, frowning a little, and indicating the body. Anna looked back at Meg's vessel, smiling sadly, and going to sit back down at her side.  
"I'm waiting for Meg to get back," She replied.  
". . . You know Meg?" Sam asked, a little caught off-guard.  
"Yes," Anna replied simply.  
"The demon, Meg?" Sam clarified, not believing it. When would Anna have met Meg?!  
"Yes. The two of us are, uh . . . Well-acquainted," Anna answered carefully.

Sam hid a smirk at the face Castiel pulled when she said that.

"You – you – a idemon/i?" Castiel spluttered.  
"You're hardly in a position to talk, brother," She retorted, nodding at Sam. ". . . No offense, Sam, but you're not exactly the fair young maiden our parents wished for Castiel to wed," She pointed out.  
"Neither is that," Castiel pointed at the body incredulously.  
"-none taken, by the way," Sam added, holding up his hands.  
"When did you even meet her?" Castiel asked.  
"About eight years ago – do you remember when I ran away, to Covenant?"  
"How could I forget?" Castiel answered, shaking his head, but unable to stop a smile from spreading across his face.

"Meg and I . . . Spent a lot of time together, in those couple of weeks. I knew what she was from the start, but I didn't care," Anna reminisced fondly.

Sam glanced at Castiel, raising his eyebrows for a moment, with a grin. Castiel smiled back, still listening to Anna's story, which she told while holding the body's hand; tenderly, she stroked a thumb across Meg's vessel's knuckles.

"When I was taken away . . . We promised to find each other, again. She said she'd join a crew, and get to St. Mary's one day to rescue me . . . Imagine my surprise when that day was today.  
"I've had a bag packed for eight years – every day I imagined it would be that day, but not til today did my hoping actually pay off. She came to me – not as her, but as one of the handmaidens in my fiancé's house. She needed help releasing your crew – so I helped them escape to here,"

She paused, sighing and brushing an errant hair from Meg's vessel's forehead. "She said she'd be back,"  
". . . Anna, she's a demon, "Sam began gently, "–they aren't exactly known for their-"

Suddenly, movement around their feet caused Sam and Castiel to look down: a pervasive black smoke gathered just above the floor, causing them to grip one another tightly by the arm; Anna stood up, gasping in excitement as she watched the smoke enter the room through the crack beneath the door, and rise up. It curled its way towards the empty vessel, prying its lips open and flooding the body once more. The effect was immediate: the grey pallor of death was replaced with Meg's usual pale skin, with a hint of rosiness in the cheeks.

Meg sat up suddenly, blinking and gasping.  
"Oh, great. You two. Just what I want to see after my last vessel got hacked to pieces saving your asses," She sniped. Her first sight when back in her usual vessel being Sam and Cas clearly wasn't to her liking.  
"Meg," Anna greeted her. The demon turned to look at her, blinking back black eyes and grinning.  
"Told you I'd be back, Red. I'd have to be crazy to pass up the chance to rip another one of your bodices,"

Anna hit her playfully on the shoulder. Castiel paled slightly.  
"Uh – c'mon, Cas. Time to go," Sam replied, leading Cas away by the arm.  
"See ya later, boys," Meg called after them, her smile just this side of maniacal. They shut the door, and heard the clunk of a lock behind them, along with giggling that Castiel in particular didn't want to think about.

"Huh . . . Well, I wouldn't have bet on that happening," Sam told Castiel, as they walked out onto the deck.  
"I would not have bet on a lot of things that have happened in my life, recently," Castiel replied, taking Sam's hand. The pirate looked down at their interlocked fingers, and up to Cas' face: a slow smile spread out across it, as they made their way to the side of the ship. Sam smiled too, and looked out across the moonlit sea.

"So . . . You're gonna stay, then?" Sam asked, as they gazed at the churning waves that would take them far, far away.  
"If you will have me, then yes," Castiel replied, looking up at Sam; the pirate looked back at him, reading his face for any trace of a lie, or reluctance. He found nothing of the sort: just a hopeful expression, as Cas sought acceptance.  
"Of course I will," Sam murmured back. Castiel looked out at the sea, and sighed.

"I suppose this makes me a pirate," He realised. Sam chuckled to himself – the thought of the man who'd not too long ago threatened to kill him giving up his title, opposing His Majesty's Royal Navy and becoming a pirate for ihim/i was more than a little amusing. And amazing.  
"I guess it does," Sam replied. He brought Castiel's hand up to his mouth, and planted a kiss on it, savouring the tranquil moment of privacy between them: much of the crew had gone to bed, and the others were occupied with their various tasks.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Castiel asked him, removing his hand from Sam's, and snaking a hand around Sam's waist, pulling him into his side.  
"Sure," Sam whispered.  
"Even though I always thought it was wrong, and bad, I . . . I always thought it would be something of an adventure, to be a pirate," He admitted. Sam tilted his head down, an amused expression on his face for a moment, as he regarded Castiel.  
"Sure, the life is pretty good," Sam confirmed, and pressed a kiss to Cas' head. ". . . But it's best if you can share it with someone you love,"

Castiel looked up at him when he heard that: his eyes were wide, the blue reflecting the pale moonlight in a way that made it look as if they were lit from within, emanating a celestial light that made Sam feel pure, and cleansed, and just so iright/i that it made his heart ache in his chest.

It had been a long journey: finding and rescuing Dean had been hard, but it had been worth it, for both of them. Whether it was Sam finding Dean, and the ship he'd grown up on, or Castiel finding his own sister, and someone with which to share mutual love and admiration in Sam . . . They'd both found their way home, in the end.

I didn't matter if the horizon they sought was north, south, east or west, they would never stray far from home, as long as they were together.

* * *

_That's all, folks! Thanks for reading :))_


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